Ghosts of the Sith
by danieljeyn
Summary: Darth Vader's castle on Voss was given to him by Palpatine. Now, Luke Skywalker is coming to claim it as the rightful inheritor. The stormtrooper garrison is torn between duty to their new Lord and the Empire. Luke is also in search of the Jedi and Sith artifacts his father had collected to save the Jedi heritage. There are others who want the artifacts, as well as revenge.
1. Chapter 01

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The night sky above Voss was a brilliant purple and black during the cold season. Imperial Stormtrooper Jafan sat on a plastoid camp chair slightly downwind from the bonfire the men had made. His frosted breath did a pirouette: rising, dissipating within the warm gusts from the fire; the breath of his life was re-absorbed into the dark anonymous depth of the sky.

Like all the men, he wore loose-fitting gray fatigues this night, spending some precious time away from being encased in duty armor. He sat slightly apart from the others, and just far enough away from the fire to catch some warmth without the danger of being singed. He could feel the fire's heat and the evening's chill jostle over one other within each gust of wind. A standard Imperial navy blanket was folded to cushion his backside on the chair, and another wrapped over his back and partially shielding his face, resisting the evening chill that tried to pull the warmth from his body to dissolve away within itself.

Jafan had been on Voss with this garrison for nearly ten years now. He was a skilled veteran, an efficient, masterful killer in his youth, and a sturdy, confident leader of men heading now into middle age. A patch of thick dark hair on his head was now a close cropped thatch of gray and white, much like the stormtrooper shell he covered it with. He was Centopt of the garrison; a non-commissioned officer nominally in charge of 100 elite stormtroopers.

The men had adopted this tradition of the Voss natives. Bonfires would be held on cool nights when the stars were at their most brilliant, speckling the dark violet tapestry of the night with floating cinders. The Voss considered nights like these as times when the celestial gates opened, and their mystics could speak plainly to their gods through a fire. This was the time of year when the two moons would rise in mid-evening, illuminating the shimmering lights which danced at the edge of the horizon.

A massive, black-stone castle loomed over the garrison. In this part of Voss, high above the Nightmare Lands, the vast natural tapestry of gold and green treetops along the mountains was juxtaposed by the singular instance of the structure of ordered, angled stone rising up on the highest mountain within sight. Built centuries ago, it alone bore witness that among the chaos of the natural beauty, some beings with purposeful, organized minds had once endeavored to leave their mark here.

Under the castle was the garrison with the only remaining Imperial-built structures for thousands of kliks in any direction. Their curved plasteel and plastoid huts were in the shadow of the castle's four massive spires, keeping them half-hidden to the sky. Aside from the massive keep, they were at the very highest point that could be seen in any direction. Any ambush would have to come from above. The deflector shield, which formed a bubble over the castle and the mountaintop, was their protection against that.

Between the ancient ruin of a castle of carved crystallized volcanic rock rising above him in the inky night, and the vast wilderness beneath him, Jafan felt himself truly a tiny alien specimen light years from what anyone in the mechanized order of the Galactic Empire would call "civilization." And besides, the Emperor was dead.

The news had come in as wild rumors, dismissed with a quick snort by Private Vancil at the signal station. But Jafan was certain.

Since his youth, he trusted his instincts, feeling a certainty of death or danger as though there were an extra eye within his head. In the city-scape of the moon of Nar Shadaa where he was raised, this sense had saved his life on many an occasion. His comrades jokingly called it his "other eye" to know when danger was around the corner, or some stranger's placid face hid some evil schemes. The other eye served him well, gave him warning to get the drop on those street level predators who smiled harmlessly while holding vibroknives hidden in cloaks. This made him a formidable fighter. He had a lifetime of fighting, surviving the rough streets between the dens of gamblers and whores, all the way to fighting for the Emperor in the 38th division while wearing gleaming plastoid armor on a dozen different worlds. Fighting was what he knew, fighting was how he stayed alive; he learned it early in a place where life was little more precious than the price of a back-alley blade that would quickly end it.

Jafan had felt a shiver come over him on patrol that day in the forest. Despite the necessity of keeping face to the men, he had fallen to his knees, shaking with a vision of destruction he had felt in his bones. These senses he had long trusted assured him that the Emperor was dead. That was four days before the official, confidential confirmation of the disaster at Endor came in on a secure channel. It was a different secure channel than where such orders had normally come from, and Captain Tiehel had scoffed and insisted it was a Rebellion ruse. Jafan suggested that the orders came from unknown channels only because the known channels no longer existed.

Only the few who drew picket duty were in their shells and out in the darkness now. Nearly the entire garrison gathered at the bonfire. The troopers had shed the overskin1 suit as well, taking the opportunity to wear the light, gray fatigues used only for inner-perimeter duty, letting their skin feel cool, natural air for an extended period of time for a change. Their shouts and boasts were a cacophony over the crackling, burning wood. They did as troops will do when off duty and releasing tension; laughing and making obscene boasts and challenges to each other. They were getting drunk, but still in a joyous way, as the yelps and calls of the men breaking out in wrestling matches were still spontaneous and sporting, not dangerous and vengeful as these things might get if they went on too long.

Bonfires had become a tradition among the Voss garrison as a time to grill real meat, not algal2 simulants, caught from a hunting party sent out early in the morning. These celebrations were reserved for holidays or celebrations. A gloom of futility had hung over the troop lately with the state of the Empire posing an open question about their fate. Jafan requested the bonfire celebration for the men to allow them to release some of this tension, to distract them from the thought of the Empire's politics, and even worse, of the fate of thousands of their brothers Palpatine likely took with him. Captain Tiehel had agreed almost without hesitation. The Captain had fixed his eyes on the holoscreens, tensing his jaw, and had hardly looked away since the news came down. Jafan knew his officer well enough to know his mind was racing, perhaps making calculations with the political machinations that may have involved his own connected family. The Centopt let it lie there once he had permission to proceed, as he knew whatever would be coming down the line from Tiehel for future orders may have been unpleasant, and he had no desire to press the matter.

Down the mountainside, the bonfires of the Voss natives themselves were visible from this distance. Their own mystics were overseeing their own rituals at their bonfires. Tylo-ko was down there, along with Qyr and Panna. Jafan normally would prefer to spend his nights in the Voss village with his wife and children, nearly an hour hike through trails and ruts to get down there, maybe only ten minutes by tauntaun. Since the fate of the Emperor had been known, he had made it a particular priority to be with and among the men of the troop.

Two grinning troopers made their way over to their seated NCO. Desek, his wide face split with a diagonal scar, was that much more terrifying when he was smiling, which he often did, given the jovial nature contrasting his imposing appearance. Corporal Heff, with the blue tint of his Chiss skin, was a bony and serious trooper, but he was smiling languidly now, holding two cups of grog.

"Hey, Top! Come out and join the fun! We don't see you much these days. And Rikka was boasting he could take you one-on-one."

Jafan was still squatting on the chair with the blanket slightly obscuring his face. He smiled and took the cup offered, swiftly throwing back his head to intake a swig of Vossik rum that made him shudder. Troops had always found a way to distill native vegetation on any planet they were on, he noted. "Airfield, latrine, still, and medical tent," was the order-of-priority joke among the engineers.

"He says that, huh? I'll have to take some time to school him." Jafan looked around.

"Wrestling is fine, but let's just get not get any DIPs3 tonight, okay?"

"Hah! That's our Top! He all business!" Desek laughed. Nobody knew quite understood what planetary chain he was from, anyway, and it was a running joke that they didn't care to find out, either. His tenuous grasp on the language of Basic was always a source of comic relief for the garrison.

Jafan took another sip and straightened himself upright, stretching with the blanket at the end of his arms.

"Well, the captain said that he would come out and address the men tonight. He did not want to do it at muster. He agreed to let everyone enjoy the bonfire. So, yes, I'm keeping my other eye on him, wherever he is. I'll get to kicking Rikka's shell in, once I'm certain Tiehel isn't sending us to invade Coruscant."

Desek looked frightened, but Heff smirked, getting the joke.

"Top, do you think we're going to move out, though? For real?"

This garrison was considered elite, full of veterans transferred in, mostly from the 38th, but it had never actually seen combat as a unit. They were guards, for sure, but for a target that no one had ever dared to approach.

Jafan worked the metal cup in his hand, taking another bracing sip.

"Well, I will tell you this much. All my senses tell me that Vader is not coming back. Although I sense that… he is sending something here, somehow. I expect our excellent, talented, and brilliant CO will inform us."

Desek still looked perplexed, but Heff grinned, getting the other subtle dig at their superior. Captain Tiehel was not widely liked among the troops. He played the part of an officer well enough: wiry, sallow, serious, and just the right accent and inflection, which maybe was enough for a cruel member of the ruling class who didn't lift a blaster or anything heavy for a living. He was from an ambitious family, too, and was inevitably restless, which left Jafan's other eye very much on guard for what he may be planning next.

Jafan walked with his men over to the circle adjacent to the flames. There were two inebriated stormtroopers in their light fatigues engaged in a wrestling match. They each were trying to get one another into armlocks so as to push the other out of the ring. Their shouts changed in pitch as the Centopt came into the midst. Still with the blanket wrapped around him, he looked less like a stormtrooper than a holovid pantomime of an old-time Jedi wizard. The men were about to stiffen into a salute with their open palms.

"At ease, men!" Jafan shouted above the crowd noise. "Don't stop on my part! Keep it up! I'll take on the winner!" The men hollered more at this. Corporals Korra and Gavvra, who were in the circle, lunged toward each other, grunting and snorting as they gleefully tried to topple one another. In the moment of distraction, Gavvra had got a leg in just behind Korra, tripping him up and tossing the slightly smaller man up and out of the ring. Now the men were shouting to overlap one another, groups taking sides as to whether it was a fair hit or not.

Jafan saw Sergeant Kale walking up to the group from the darkness with an expression which betrayed he had news. Kale was noticeable right away given his height and his prominent eyebrows. Kale was a Master Sergeant, below Jafan among the non-coms, and the Centopt did not care much personally for his junior. He found Kale to be the very model of the newer, younger stormtroopers who had come up as of late in the Empire: full of experience in terrorizing a placated population, swollen with contempt and grafted muscle, but never scarred in battle against foes who actually fought back. Jafan, when he cared to reflect on it, wondered if this was indicative of the degeneration that had taken place within the Empire to prompt the Rebel terrorist cause to grow so popular.

Kale met his eyes, unsmiling. He came over to the Centopt and saluted quickly. Jafan returned it half-heartedly. Kale leaned in and spoke confidentially. "The Captain wishes to speak with the garrison in five minutes." Jafan betrayed no expression, but he was both alarmed and annoyed at this. Now, as the men were celebrating and relaxing? Nodding, he acknowledged Kale's information. "Alright then." He turned and whipped the blanket off over his shoulders. He stood straight to address the troop in the tone he used to sound commanding.

"Garrison, listen up! Gather up for a minute! First things: Captain Tiehel is going to speak to us in about five minutes! We'll find out what this is all about at that time."

The men were silent, pondering what this could mean. For a moment there was only a sound of the fire's consumption of the piled wood. Jafan timed his speech for the effect as he changed his tone to one more jovial.

"Meanwhile, Gavvra, you've earned the right to taste my boot up your rear!"

The men roared in appreciation as their Centopt entered the ring. Gavvra wiped some dirt from his face and bounced up and down. Not many of the troop could beat their scarred, older NCO, so this was a rare treat to take him on.

The troop chanted as the two men met. The younger man, Gavvra, was taller and in shape, but Jafan planted himself sturdily on his ground. He was still as strong as ever, but didn't have the wind of the younger man. They wheezed, pushing against each other for seconds at a time, then separated, pushing off and circling. Finally, the older man grunted, and lifted Gavvra slightly, getting him off balance enough to shove him beyond the circle. The men cheered. Jafan was panting, exhausted now, feeling his age and the Vossik rum gone to his head. Sergeant Kale now yelled.

"Atten- _shuh!_ Officer on deck!"

The men quickly spun and snapped to attention. Captain Tiehel, with a flair for catching the troop off guard, walked calmly through the crowd with his hands behind his back. There was nothing informal about him, as he was still dressed in the black Imperial officer's uniform. He lifted his arm to return salutes with an open hand.

"At ease, men! Gather up!"

The troop surrounded him, most of them at parade rest. Tiehel's aide, Corporal Evonn placed down a folding stool which the captain mounted, allowing him to stand a couple of heads above the assembled troop, visible to all of them.

"Voss Garrison!" he addressed them by their unit's name. "You are the elite garrison at this place, and you are all veterans of this war. We all know that things have happened and our situation has changed."

The troops were silent now, understanding the seriousness of what was being unveiled.

"We have word that there is an official transfer of authority. Lord Vader is no more. We have received notice that Vader's son is now claiming to be Lord of this place by right of inheritance."

The last words dripped sourly from Tiehel's mouth. The troops looked at one another. Vader's son?

"We've all heard the stories. The Rebels who confronted and murdered the Emperor – well, apparently one of them was reputedly Vader's son. Yes, a Rebel, who confronted and conspired with Vader and killed the Emperor. That is what we have been told."

Jafan was definitely interested in this. He never quite did understand Vader in the times he had met the man. He was fierce, legendarily merciless in his duty, but there was a withdrawn sadness and quiet in him the last time he saw the Lord, many months ago. He was internally entertained that Vader, so much the scourge of the Rebellion and the Emperor's favorite, might have had something to do with turning around and killing Palpatine like some rumors had suggested. But his son? He never would have thought such a thing were possible. The old man was full of surprises.

Tiehel continued. "All of you took an oath to the Empire and to the Emperor. This leaves us in between masters. The Rebels have claimed that we owe duty to them as members of the garrison!"

There was a loud murmur now as the men buzzed among themselves. Several expletives were shouted out loud at that. Tiehel held up a hand for quiet.

Enjoy this, Tiehel, thought Jafan. You won't get the undivided attention of the garrison like this for long.

The Captain continued. "I have no interest in serving a Rebel usurper. I will be leaving this place at 0600 sharp tomorrow. I have arranged for shuttle deployment to our nearest muster point, at the Imperial fleet assembled near Hutta. Both Lambda shuttles here will be adequate to evacuate us all, as well as the equipment which we can carry. The Rebel usurper will be here to claim to take official control at 0800, and I intend to be gone. All of you are welcome to come with me."

Jafan felt a sudden pit in his stomach, and an emptiness, as if the blood in his chest had suddenly poured out from a cracked chalice. At that moment he felt the first pangs of genuine fear. The death of the Emperor, even Vader, had not phased him much. Not even the contemplation of the fall of the Empire itself. But losing the garrison — and his family — filled him with a genuine sense of panic.

"There is no higher approval to issue these orders. However, I have been in touch with the fleet. You will all be expected. And you will be accommodated."

Jafan was aware suddenly of a tingling on his neck. He was aware of the blaster he had on his belt. Just a duty, hand-held thing. He could get off near 80 shots with the plasma coil in it, if necessary. Then he counseled himself. Why are you even having these thoughts?

Surely some of the men wouldn't want to go along with Tiehel's retreat. Many of them surely would disappear into the Voss night before the evacuation. That was not Jafan's style, however. He would never disobey a superior without telling that superior exactly why he was doing it. It was a matter of pride for him.

Tiehel continued. "I recognize the short warning with these arrangements. Many of you will have goodbyes to arrange with locals. Take your time to do-so but make it quick. Tomorrow, we sleep on the fleet. Are there any questions?"

The troop were silent. They looked at one another, grimly. Many looked panicked as well. The rum still warmed their insides and softened the edges of their minds, making the whole situation seem unreal in their minds. Jafan realized the moment to speak was present. As the ranking trooper, it was his prerogative to do so. He cleared his throat.

"Sir…?"

"Yes, Centopt?"

"But the garrison. Sir… we are the guard for the castle. To abandon it…?"

Captain Tiehel's nostrils flared.

"That is what the Rebels expect, indeed. Do you forget yourself, Centopt? Do you forget your honor? Your oath?"

Jafan's tongue was loosened now.

"No, Sir. With respect, I am mindful of our place here. I also recall orders were clear about surrendering Imperial territory. I intend to do my duty should any Rebel want to seize this territory. We have been sworn to man this post. And, frankly, Sir, where are the orders coming from now which would require us to join the fleet?"

Jafan hesitated on the word "seize." He felt his emotions getting the better of him. But an old non-com knew how to be patient with officers, and he moderated the emotion in his voice, ameliorating his tone, to lessen any obvious signs of fear. He continued.

"Sir, I did take an oath to Emperor Palpatine. He is dead. I took an oath to the Imperial high command. Which is also apparently gone. I also took an oath to defend this Voss garrison and the Castle of Lord Vader. Vader is dead, but by right if his son is coming, I won't surrender it under duress. If the son is truly the heir to the Lord, I believe my duty to maintain my post until I am relieved or dead is quite clear."

Jafan was careful now. He knew he was just shy of being reckless. He could tell his words had met their mark in the men, who were no longer fully prepared to follow the captain as a matter of course. The Captain was aligned with the Coruscant ruling class. He had things to lose if the Empire fell. Jafan, and many of his troops, had only themselves and their kit, and the life they had built for themselves here at this garrison and with the Voss. He chafed at the assumption they would automatically jump at the chance to become Imperial cannon fodder when there was no longer even an Emperor. Tiehel, either through ignorance or arrogance, had an expectation that most of the stormtroopers would behave like automatons and follow him in due course. Even though Tiehel was in charge, he had no authority beyond that which was granted to him by his superiors. Jafan was older than all his men, though, and had seen much in his years, and he was not nearly as eager to simply follow any officer simply because of momentum.

"With respect, Sir… The Empire's order seems to be gone. I have little notion but that this our home and our post to defend. To take part now would seem to be taking sides in… a civil war."

Sergeant Kale stepped forward, his face was almost purple as he addressed the Centopt with a hiss. "You dare! The Empire is in trouble, and you're refusing to fight? By right, I should cut you down as a traitor!"

Jafan's face betrayed no emotion at this bluster, but he met his junior sergeant's face with perfect equanimity.

"If you think you're up to it, Kale, please, try your best." Jafan's arms remained at parade rest behind his cloth uniform. He could see Kale working up the nerve, but he sensed there would be no danger without further provocation.

Jafan no longer cared. Keeping his gaze on Kale, he continued.

"I will remind the captain that I recall Vader himself did not take kindly to disloyalty to his command. I follow the precedent set forth by our last orders."

Tiehel's face remained neutral, but he seemed to swallow hard. Kale spoke again.

"You are a liar, Jafan! You have switched your loyalty to these Voss savages! You wish to remain here with your toad-woman and your spawn! You've no loyalty to the Empire! To the cause!"

Kale had effortlessly used a nasty slur against the Voss. As their alien skin glittered with bright colors and patterns, they were sometimes referred to as "toads" by the less graceful humanoids of the Empire.

Jafan's face still did not change, but his hands were no longer clasped behind his back. He walked with a steady gait toward Kale, saying nothing. The purpose was clear from a veteran like Jafan that he was on a straightforward trajectory to kill the sergeant for that insult. Kale involuntarily began to drop back as the Centopt approached, and as the men around realized what was happening, in a panic they grabbed at the Centopt. Soon, a scrum of troopers had engaged to form a wall to keep them apart.

Jafan was snarling now as he met resistance with the wave of bodies surging to keep the two NCOs from killing one another. Kale suddenly twisted his face as well, now that the crowd of troopers swarmed, and he was safe. Above them all, Captain Tiehel's mouth was dry, starting to speak more than a few times and stammering. He could see the situation was growing out of control.

"… m-men… _MEN!_ " Tiehel screamed. The garrison stopped moving slightly. Tiehel knew he was out of his depth. As an officer, he knew the troops he commanded were disciplined. But unleashed, they were trained in all manners of frightening violence. And with the Empire unraveling, this would not likely end well if discipline were lost.

Seeing that the peace wouldn't last as the men continued to work up their nerve, he spoke quickly.

"Let Jafan stay! If you wish to fight to defend this place, then so be it! I don't believe a Rebel ruse such as Vader having a son. But let Jafan stay if he has such a death wish! I expect everyone else to leave with me. You men have your orders. I expect you all to say your farewells and pack your things. We leave in the morning. The garrison is dismissed!"

Some men reflexively saluted as Captain Tiehel dismounted while most just stared. As the captain walked off, quickly, toward the command tent and his bunker, the men now truly broke up into groups and began talking. No one was interested in wrestling any more. Kale shot a serious look at Jafan, and both men locked stares for a moment, before Kale turned and strolled to the barracks, surrounded by most of the men. The stormtroopers now had a mission to fulfill, and their training kicked in, allowing each to funnel his troubled mind into duty. A smaller group stayed at the fire, murmuring, as they discussed plans on what to do next.

The garrison had seemed to split organically now, between those who would go, and a few who would stay. Jafan could see Heff and Desek were with him. Private Rikka, young and fearless was there as well. Balia stayed; he was a species nobody quite understood or could pronounce, with pale skin and green eyes and covered in very short, downy tan fur, but still humanoid enough to be a stormtrooper. Jafan was pleased to see a core of his best, loyal veterans stayed with him. Two dozen others stood there as well, no doubt deciding what to do next. Most were young and homesick for places they might yet return to, so they were eager enough to get off this backwater assignment. Other men had married grown to love the planet, including falling in love with some of the Voss as well. Many others were terrified, as making decisions – including life and death – were up until now entirely made for them. Facing an actual choice was agony to a stormtrooper.

There was a pause in the commotion after all the men had drifted off to their respective corners. The moons had yet to rise, and there was still a bonfire raging. The meat would be grilled, the grog consumed. And in the morning, the others would sleepily board the Tydirium Lambda shuttle and bid farewell to Voss. Jafan looked out over his men and he could see they were waiting for him to speak.

He exhaled. "Is Vancil here?"

"Sir?"

"Inform the perimeter patrol of what has happened. Make it clear that they are free to go with Tiehel, or they can stay here with the garrison."

He didn't know whether the garrison would be more than himself and one or two others who decided to stay, but it didn't matter any more. He turned to the men.

"If you wish to stay, you are welcome to join me. Five minutes to finish your food and cups. After that, all troopers get into your shells! Arm up! Until we know otherwise, we may have a fight on our hands in the morning."

Jafan spoke to imply fighting the Rebels who were coming, but foremost on his mind were Tiehel and Kale, and treachery. He pondered stormtrooper on stormtrooper violence. This is what the Palpatine and the Rebellion has brought us, has it?

The men eagerly began to finish their food and drink, playing a part of being in no obvious hurry. The prospect of violence focused their minds, and they resented that the meat was not enjoyed as much as they had planned. But it was efficiently consumed as though they were ripping open packs of algals in the field. They passed around the grog, though, savoring their last drinks. Imperial discipline frowned on troops going into battle inebriated, but it was common enough to be unspoken that grog, stim, and spice were all greedily consumed while men worked up the nerve to kill and be killed.

Jafan now stood slightly apart from the men. He walked to where the meat was grilling on spits above the coals. He pulled a striated sliver of wild nerff off the spit and began to chew. Small pleasures. The old instincts took over; take stock of your time and all your totems; this may be all there is. He walked with his men, calmly, gathering up to return to the armory. Those with sidearms held a hand on them, even though they half-suspected Kale might open up on them with a turret. Jafan felt certain Kale would want to, but would only be held back by the reality that it would damage morale for the rest of the garrison beyond repair, and thus put Kale's life in danger if they started killing one another now. Jafan counted on Kale's cowardice serving to stay his homicidal irrationality.

Jafan preferred not to think about what the Empire had become. But there were stories: villages ravaged, civilians sacrificed, outspoken members of the nobility and the guilds being tortured and thrown into dungeons, and the destruction of planets to set examples by fear. He had seen the first rumblings himself when he was a young stormtrooper at the Correllia uprising. The garrison had never been told that saving the Voss village was a priority, but knowing what the Empire was capable of, he would take a stance if he had to for the only beings in the galaxy he loved more than his brothers in arms.

Several stormtroopers in the base were now moving swiftly, stuffing cases full of belongings, as well as souvenirs of Voss such as seeds, trinkets, or carvings. The men could be inexplicably sentimental about the small things they carried with them.

They were Vader's garrison. Elite troops guarding a sensitive target which no one would have dared attack, anyway. For them, all this time, it was a holiday from the real wars going on across the galaxy. Now it seemed that war, or at least one of its orphans, was coming for them at last.

1 **Overskin:** The black, bio-mechanical black suit worn under stormtrooper armor which vitally regulated skin health with a living lattice of bacteria within a mesh exo-layer. The suits were expensively customized with specialized nano-particles which would react to temperature and moisture to regulating temperature. In case of pressure differentials in dangerous atmosphere conditions, they would constrict the body to alleviate swelling or pressure sickness. They also would constrict around tears, and sense any bodily wounds, keeping pressure on any body punctures so as to minimize bleeding until first aid could be administered. The suits contained a circulatory system of bio-engineered life with an alkaline solution. They would absorb excess oil and sweat from the skin, digesting it into solid form that could be emptied from pouches, keeping the bacteria of the skin's surface always at optimized balanced. The troopers would be comfortable and sanitary in the suits for six days without occurring much wear, and could be worn much longer in necessity. They were a primary way that stormtroopers could remain alert and effective for long periods of time in a variety of climates and conditions.

2 **Algal:** Vat grown, bio-engineered food substances. With sunlight, water, and salts, it can imitate the taste and texture of just about any organic matter, including flesh.

3 **DIP:** Damage to Imperial Property: a particularly annoying demerit for the troops issued when a trooper did something stupid which results in Damage to Imperial Property, i.e., usually their own body.


	2. Chapter 02

"My father's fate is my own…"

 _He sees a battlefield before him. A lone figure swaddled in black, interlinked plated armor floats above the ground amidst a cacophony of fire and death. The figure holds out his hands and the air wavers; the Force itself shatters an Imperial Walker. The figure in black reaches through the Force and pulls TIE fighters from the sky and smashes them to the ground like a petulant child destroying toys. He knows that he is that figure cloaked in black. He feels an entire armada of TIE fighters and Star Destroyers no longer against him, but now all bending to his orders. He himself has taken command; they are yielding to the wave of his hand, as they now follow his channeling of the Force to hammer enemy ships. He feels the Force flowing through him, intensifying as light through a refracted prism, guiding thousands of souls leaning on his will. The rush is intoxicating, beyond the threshold of his flesh. He is a creature of pure energy now; the Force itself surrounds him. He is one within the Force; death and destruction are dispensed with the flick of his fingers. He is one with the Dark Side, and nothing can stand in his way._

Luke awoke in a start, gasping. He leapt upward out of the cot and smashed immediately into the bunk above him. He fell back, clutching his head, cursing. The sheets were wet. He had been sweating with terror in his sleep. He could see the metal cup of water on a ledge next to the bunk was crushed and concave, water dripping down on the floor. Had he lashed out with the Force while dreaming? He took a quick visual stock of the cabin, wondering if he had somehow crashed the ship, or torn a hole in the bulkhead. The only sound was only the gentle hum of a craft wrapped in a light tunnel. The wound on his head made him woozy, but otherwise he could tell his surroundings were still solid, off-grey in the Imperial fashion of these shuttles. He stood up. Not nearly enough room in the cabin to stretch his arms. This was an officer's cabin, normally shared by two men, but barely enough room for one to stand and get dressed. He felt his head where he smacked it, and groaned. He flicked his fingers and the lights turned brighter.

"Threepio!"

"Master Luke?" The pocket door opened with a "whush." The golden-colored droid had been outside on standby power.

"How does it look, Threepio? I hit my head." The unchanging expression of C-3P0's faceplate leaned in, with only the circular optics resizing and distorting color as he quickly scanned Luke's face.

"Minor bruising to the skin, blood vessels, but no permanent damage. Master Luke. I'd say you'll be perfectly fine."

Luke groaned, sitting down on the small built-in stool that also served as a foot locker in the tiny cabin.

"Would you care for breakfast, Sir?"

"Just water, Threepio. Please bring me a very tall glass."

Luke rubbed his head as he heard Lando call out. "Are you up, Luke?"

"Seems so," Luke said, still rubbing his temples. He never knew what he exactly thought of Lando. Like Han, he was a rogue who always struck him more as a practical man than an idealist. Luke knew the value of that. Lando and his crew were skilled at what they did, so Luke was glad to hire them to crew this captured Imperial Tydirium shuttle. If Nien Nunb could fly the Falcon through a Death Star, a trip to Voss should be simple. Provided the garrison agreed to let them land, of course.

Lando leaned in at the door, staring at the young man sitting on locker. He was curious about the Jedi. He never formally apologized for allowing Vader to trap him in Cloud City, but he respected the young fighter for his heart, including the fact that he never mentioned it, either. He thought if it wasn't for all these wars and religious quests, Luke would make a good pilot. His nature, though, was too chipper to be much good at the transportation and smuggling trade; the man just had no deceptiveness in his nature. Which was too bad.

He took stock of the state that Luke was in, including his flushed appearance.

"Bad dreams?"

"You could say that." He stared down. "I dreamed that I had given over to the Dark Side. That I was in black armor, and was at the head of the Empire, leading an army against my old friends. I felt all the power that Palpatine offered me; I saw millions die at my whim, channeling the Force."

He continued. "What's worse is that it felt all too real to me. It was dreamlike — everything was tinted green for some reason — but it felt real. Like I was possessing that power as easily as just wanting it. It was like… nothing I ever felt before. I keep seeing the Emperor in my dreams, like I keep reliving that fight in the throne room."

Lando nodded, crossing his arms.

"I can only imagine what a Jedi would have as a nightmare. Now, losing at Sabaac, getting sat on by a Hutt, or a hundred Twi'lek dancers, that's what I might dream about."

"The followers of the Force seemed to have put some stock into the meaning of dreams. Maybe that's just an old religious superstition to you, Lando."

"No, I didn't say that. I mean, I'm not Han. I've seen enough in this galaxy to know that all these things are connected. Personally, Luke, I am convinced it's not just luck or chance that drive things. I've stayed alive this far mainly by being damn good at what I do, and that's not easy to come by. Dreams might tell you something, but in my experience, they're also only half-truths. And everything else, well, hopefully the Force has been with me."

Threepio arrived, and Lando moved slightly to allow him to hand Luke a tall glass of water.

"It is, Lando, it definitely is" Luke said, then drank thirstily.

"Tell me this, Luke — is it the Force that told you to go find Vader's house?"

"Well, not exactly. I've seen my father — Anakin Skywalker — through the Force. It's not a comm-link though — things can be vague. I understood that he told me to seek out his home and to protect the answers I find at this place. I don't know for sure what that will be."

Lando was skeptical. "Do you think Vader was laying a trap for us?"

Luke furrowed his brow. "Well, in that way, no. I am connected now to my father through the Force, and what Vader was is no longer is a part of him. However, there is the garrison, of course, as I warned you. We've informed them we're coming, and hopefully they will parlay with us, and accept me as the inheritor of the estate. So long as they open the shield and let us land, of course. I don't think it would be wise to come in heavy and fight our way in."

Lando looked off the distance, lost in thought for a moment, as he rubbed each hand against its opposite forearm.

"Well, when we land — if we land — still, the garrison could just kill us? Because, frankly, opening the shield and letting us land into an ambush — that's what I would do. Maybe not if I knew they had a Jedi, but still…"

Luke played it straight. "I guess they can try." He noted Lando raised a single eyebrow, but didn't fall for the bait and panic. Luke continued. "I will be channeling the Force of course, sensing what danger they have in mind. It's not foolproof, but I will be reaching out through the Force, sensing treachery." He had a bit of a twinkle in his eye. "I've learned from previous mistakes I've made."

Lando didn't betray any emotion.

"Will that make it impossible to kill a Jedi? My men are quick on the draw, but I don't want to just throw them into battle as sitting ducks for a garrison of stormtroopers."

"My sense of the Force may make it more difficult for them to kill us. But Jedi can be killed like anyone else, mark my words. We'll just be on our toes. We won't get near them if I sense treachery."

"Alright then, Youngblood." Lando exhaled. "With your Force sense, my wits, my hit men, and all my charm, I'm counting on living through this simple package delivery. I'm going to check on our ETA. We should be there within the hour."

Luke smiled. Lando had charisma, he'd give him that. He bowed his head slightly as Lando carried on to the bridge.

C-3PO took the opportunity to speak. "Master Luke, are you alright? I could find a pain pill?"

"I'll recover, Threepio. Tell me, how has the research gone on ancient Jedi encryptions? Do you think you'll be able to decode them?"

C-3PO was delighted to speak on his specialty of human-cyber communications. "Well, sir! I have had good luck in researching the various runes used in Jedi remains! But there are so many permutations over the ages, it may take some educated guessing and reconstruction of the linguistic semaphores. You see, the ancient Rossik forms had a idiomorphic written form of communication…"

Luke politely waved off the droid's enthusiastic monologue. "That's all wonderful, Threepio. I think it's a little much for my head to take right now." He stood up, stretching his legs. "I think I need a shower. The Empire never did fit these shuttles out for comfort."

Luke walked through the shuttle's sparse passageway, passing one of the observation windows. As the ship sailed through a light-tunnel, the outside view was refracted smears of starlight. He pondering that vastness, dwarfing the space between the dimensions that hardly made sense to his eyes and ears.

Yoda had taught him that the Force exists not in matter, not in forms of individual lives, but in between these things; it is grown by life itself. Did the Force itself exist without regards to time or space as well?

On the deck of the small galley, before an observation port, Luke knelt. He calmed his mind, steadying his breath. He closed his eyes, sensing the Force like a trail of warm air in a cold climate, feeling the void between himself and the vast emptiness through which he tumbled forward in the light tunnel. He reached out to Voss, feeling the planet hanging in space. Vader had left something behind, and like a beacon, he could sense that it wanted to be found. But his skills were still raw, and he could only sense the Force there like viewing an object from a distance. Shapeless, indistinct, it was distorting like a distant mirage on the desert surface of Tatooine. He thought again of his vision of the Dark Side. The weightless sensation, the enthralling rush of power — was it flying? — or falling?

"The cave — think of your failure in the cave!" Yoda's warning echoed of that time when he had a vision from the Force; it was his nemesis; it was a warning of the inheritance of Vader. Luke hadn't understood it at the time.

He shuddered for a moment, pondering that cold emptiness between worlds and stars. He stood up and continued on to the aft of the shuttle, intending to get in a warm ion shower before they landed.


	3. Chapter 03

For nearly as long as the recorders had paid any attention to Voss, the castle had been a puzzling ruin. As massive as it was, it wasn't much of a fortification. The interior passages led to only a few large rooms. There was hardly anything but the barest parapet on the roof that would do for defensive ramparts. Whether it had been a cathedral for the consummation of forgotten Voss rituals, or a warlord's country home, the ensuing millennia had consigned the matter to speculation and myth. Here in this far-flung corner of a lesser-known world, it had primarily been used as a hunting lodge during the golden age of the Old Republic. Falling into disuse ever since, it had of late become a private retreat of the Lord who had been given this keep as a gift for his service to the Galactic Empire.

The shiny stones had been laid by ancient artisans in the age of muscle and beast. They had broken, cut, and polished the obsidian blocks with primitive tools, piling them with agonizing effort into the structure that now perched at the top of the mountain. Its four massive spires at each corner extended far into the sky, touching the edge of the clouds. Any modern Imperial passing through the hand-carved, slightly uneven stone arches could hardly fathom the uncanny difficulty this effort would had been without droids and repulsorlifts. It must have taken them several lifetimes to build it, was Jafan's occasional thought.

The corridors resolved into a single great hallway that led toward the private quarters of the Lord of the Keep at the top of the structure. Periodically spaced cutouts along the outer walls allowed some some sunlight to dribble in, rippling across the smooth stone, pushing away some of the darkness. On the inner walls were grooves which were cut for torches which would have been fashioned with wood, cloth, and pitch. Now those grooves were retro-fitted with smooth, Imperial Navy plasma torches, giving off an even, pallid glow that dimly lit Jafan's path.

The Centopt walked along the corridor, his white breastplate gleaming in the darkness. The orange chevron on his right shoulder pad, visible as a mark of his rank, was moving fluidly in the reflections on the shiny volcanic glass. As Centopt of the garrison, he had made this morning trek many times accompanying Captain Tiehel. The polished black stones with rivulets of light pooling on their surface had reminded him of the armored visage of Lord Vader. It only seemed appropriate for this place to be his possession.

Vader himself had often said very little during these morning operation reports as Jafan read off mundane rosters and updates on provisions and supplies. Behind the mask, the Dark Lord was mostly silent, hardly interested in the quotidian matters of the garrison, normally dismissing Jafan or Tiehel peremptorily if the report lasted near a full minute. At first, during these meetings, Jafan had been terrified; that temper was well known. But Vader betrayed none of that in Jafan's presence, and seemed often indifferent to his company. A Centopt was feared among his men as an experienced warrior who had been bloodied in battle, proving his worth to lead a century of stormtroopers. To the Moffs, Lords, and officer elite of the Empire, troopers were still anonymous servants, and Jafan soon came to sense that even a Centopt was well below an Imperial Lord's level of concern.

Jafan's mind went to the flurry of activity over the previous day. The officers were gone now. Captain Tiehel had left with most of the garrison, and Jafan was now the senior ranking member of the command structure, as well as the non-commissioned officer in charge of the troop.

As most of the garrison had loaded up into the Tydirium shuttles, the remainers had watched while in formation below, standing at attention with the blue-and-tan colors of the post. All parties were armed. There was a fear all around that one side may take shots at the other. In the end, the two shuttles departed without incident, even while the cannons were armed and facing their rear as they grew smaller in the sky. Jafan's men had stood not far from the anti-ship turrets which were also armed and primed. When the craft were fully out of sight, they felt the tension in their backs slightly relax. Jafan put them at ease and dismissed them then. Just 32 troopers, including a few engineers, were all who were left. Just over 30 men out of a garrison that was once nearly 200 at full strength.

The son of Vader arrived soon after as expected. Jafan and the troop had stood in formation and at attention with the colors once more to receive him when his shuttle landed. The Rebel wore a simple, grey and black robe and raised his hands as he came down the ramp to show he was not hostile. He addressed the assembled garrison briefly, quickly reassuring them that they would still be paid as a garrison and face no fight from himself or Lando's crew. After a few quick formalities, he moved into the castle with droids and a few followers assisting him. He'd asked the Centopt to come see him first thing the next morning. He specified one other request: that the men keep their helmets off when they were inside the perimeter when they weren't at combat readiness. He said he considered the routine of stormtroopers being permanently masked to be a sign of Imperial intimidation.

Jafan now felt odd to be wearing his cloth garrison cap this way, exposing his face and head while also wearing his full duty armor. The mask allowed a trooper to hide his expressions, and Jafan found himself reaching back to discipline learned in boot camp to maintain an expressionless, unfocused gaze as he readied himself for an audience with his superior. The helmet was one of the few sanctums afforded to an Imperial trooper. One could wear an expression of boredom, amusement, or annoyance behind the mask. None of which would ever be tolerated if seen openly.

Still, troopers had a culture of complaining, and stormtrooper helmets were a common subject. The HUD1 never seemed to work as well as it should, never adjusting properly to head or eye positioning without continuous tweaking of the settings. Incorrectly adjusting the head straps could lead to twisting against the scalp, leaving sweaty sores behind. The re-breather, when connected, had an artificial taste that was occasionally unpleasant, and without it, one's mouth often went dry after tasting one's own spit for an extended time.

Jafan entered the corridor to the private quarters with his helmet clipped against his web belt, bouncing against his lower left hip armor in a rhythm as he walked, countering the weight of the blaster pistol bouncing against his right hip. He paused and shifted the bandoleer with the officer's bantha-leather case containing the daily roster between his right and left shoulder, attempting to find a more comfortable balance for moving with his kit in this unfamiliar configuration.

Per the status of his position as Centopt, Jafan was always the only enlisted trooper allowed to enter the private quarters at the end of the Great Hall. Vader, unique among the Imperial elite, had disdained having guards near his person. There were legends that there were Jedi in hiding, wanting revenge for the destruction of their cult. Vader was clearly a desired target of terrorist assassins from the Rebellion. That was to say nothing of the unmentionable reality that the Empire thrived on ambitious Moffs, any of whom might well have seen an advantage in the elimination of the Emperor's favorite.

Jafan had broached the subject on two occasions that a post of guards outside the private quarters were the very minimum of security which protocol demanded. Both times Vader deigned to speak, which was rare enough, exclaiming in his clipped and unambiguous manner, "that will not be necessary, Centopt." Both times, Vader spoke the same words; Jafan knew better than to mention it again.

The son of Vader had also seemed initially indifferent to a trooper presence, not surprisingly, as the nature of the troopers so formerly loyal to the Empire wouldn't wisely be trusted by a Rebel usurper either. Jafan clouded any contemplation of the politics so as not to distract himself. Duty was his singular focus; the internecine disputes of which Lords had jockeyed for power were best kept far away from his mind.

Most of the retinue that the Jedi had brought with him had shuffled back out of the castle in the morning. They were going back and forth, preparing to leave with the shuttle that had brought him, apparently letting Skywalker get on with whatever business he had come here to accomplish.

Just outside the private quarters, the last of the Jedi's group, the odd alien pilot with large, inky-black eyes and multiple folds in its face was sitting on a stool and re-assembling a blaster. Jafan hesitated. Was he on guard duty? Was this creature some kind of superior officer?

Jafan stiffened himself and clicked his heels. "Centopt with dailies... Sir!" The alien looked up, as it was more than a good head shorter than even a short human, and with the large eyes blinked rapidly. It mumbled something unintelligible. A blue and white astromech droid rolled from the entrance of the private quarters and into view. It made the usual mechanical chirps and whistles inherent to such devices. Jafan still stood at attention, the moment hanging in the air as he felt his stormtrooper blood begin to warm in annoyance. He was dealing with two creatures whose countenance he could not distinguish between mocking and incomprehension.

A voice echoed from around the corner in the private quarters with the plummy metallic precision of a protocol droid. Two glowing eyes on a gold frame came into view. "Centopt of the garrison? Please come in, Sir! The Commander has been finishing Jedi exercise before your meeting."

Jafan bowed slightly at the alien which still stared at him with blank, inky eyes. The astromech rolled ahead, chirping, followed by the protocol droid, waving its arms and announcing that the Centopt had arrived.

He entered the chamber as he had done many times before. The shutters over the windows in Vader's time offered only oblique sunlight into this space. Vader preferred darkness. The former Lord's massive meditation chamber was in the center of the room. Perhaps the low light was more amenable to the Vader's reputedly fragile organic body during times when his mask was removed. Things were different now. There was a sudden contrast in leaving the enveloping blackness of the hallway, entering the personal chambers suffused with natural light pouring in from the expansive windows that lined the far wall, viewing out toward the broad expanse of snow-capped mountains of Voss.

The meditation chamber still sat in the center of the room. Black metal was now haloed with natural light. It was open, and it appeared that the Son of Vader had placed his baggage there. The inheritor seemed to have set up a minimal amount of possessions; an ascetic touch familiar to a soldier, as well as perhaps a mystic, both of which, Jafan reminded himself this strange son reputedly was.

Vader had also kept the quarters rather stark. There were storage lockers against the walls which were almost always closed when Jafan had seen them. They were open now. Brightly colored, seemingly jeweled boxes maybe a half-meter in square dimensions were visible within them, arranged in neat rows on shelves from the floor to above head-height. The protocol droid returned to walking along the shelves, picking up one of the cubes, holding it and scanning it closely with a hand-held device. At the far end of the lockers, there was a mounted row of what must have been dozens of hand-sized metallic cylinders. Jafan speculated they must have been lightsabers.

Movement drew the attention of the Centopt. The Son of Vader, with an un-military mop of shaggy light blonde hair, had come from around a corner at the bottom of the meditation chamber, panting slightly. Morning physical training exercises, as soldiers will do, Jafan thought to himself. The young man knelt, pulling a clean undershirt and taupe military jerkin from a case inside the open chamber.

The young man had his back to Jafan as he removed the light gray exercise shirt over his head. Jafan noticed the reddish, branching marks of melted skin on his back; the flesh had deformed in places into ferocious, mottled scars. There were rumors of what had happened on the Death Star. Vancil relayed from the comm chatter that the Emperor himself had used his sorcery to fire lightning into the body of the Rebel, nearly killing him.

Jafan took a breath. He had seen such burns on the bodies of casualties of combat; souvenirs woven into flesh where plasma, fire, and burning cinders had done their work. This young man, just barely more than a boy, had faced down the Emperor — who had done this.

The Son of Vader turned and spoke. "The morning reports, I take it, Centopt?" He still hadn't met Jafan's gaze, as he was buttoning the taupe jacket, pulling up a pistol belt from the floor, notably with a lightsaber hilt as the only weapon.

"Yes, my Lord!" Jafan gave a smart salute.

A wry smile emerged from underneath a serious expression. "At ease, Centopt, at ease… and please… no title here." He spoke relatively softly. "My rank is Commander. Commander Skywalker."

"Very good… Commander… Sir!" Jafan attempted to stand at ease, which his training resisted. He felt conspicuous, standing at slight parade rest, looking exactly like someone ordered to be at ease.

The structure of Vader's meditation chamber could be sealed by an upper shell which lowered from the ceiling, enclosing the structure like a giant black egg. Skywalker sat on the edge of the meditation chamber, sitting on one of the dipping ends of the jaggedly-spaced, tooth-like seal. He rested his chin in his gloved hand. Jafan brought up the different screens from his bag, clearing his throat as he readied himself to read the reports aloud.

The blue astromech droid delivered a tray with metal bowls and cups on them. Skywalker poured a cup of steaming liquid. He took a sip and now met Jafan's eyes. "A tea made from a ground root from Balmorra. It was quite popular in the outer systems, I understand. Quite potent if you'd care for any?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I am fully refreshed, sir." He suffered an instant panic of regret. Would it be rude to turn down the hostility of a new Lord?

"Jafan... please, feel free to truly be at ease. We can be more informal here. I think you will find I am not my father." Jafan smiled involuntarily. At the mention of this unspoken participant in their interaction, a tension was truly eased between the men. Skywalker spoke again.

"We don't have to get to all the details of the garrison just yet. You are now the senior officer in the camp now? Are you finding yourself in need of anything for this sudden promotion?"

Jafan adjusted his shoulders slightly, taking a moment before he replied.

"Non-commissioned officer of course, Commander. I'm a senior troop leader, and I can command men, not logistics. The datawork is, I'm afraid, something I'm only passably familiar with, Sir."

Skywalker nodded and exhaled.

"Well, as it is, there isn't much of a bureaucracy operating, anyway." He looked to the wall of cabinets with their multi-colored cubes. "Those who once lead, now are leashed; those learned to follow will now lead."

Skywalker looked back at Jafan while holding both hands on the cup. "Barsen'thor Aurantus said that. Old Jedi prophecies." Skywalker had a faraway look. "How are you fixed for power?"

"We have one generator that is powered by a thermal link into the planet's magma from hitting a volcanic chamber at an angle, and that is dedicated entirely to the shield above, keeping command operations online, as well as the castle's power. We have three fusion cores for power of the base quarters, but… two of them are offline, just used for parts. That leaves us with one core which powers our use of housing facilities, including medical and cooking fuel, and weapons charges. We don't have enough to regularly refresh any of the plasma cores of the smaller equipment, so we ration refueling from the main core. We have two scout walkers, two TIE fighters, all which remain only on standby power. We have several loader droids and astromech droids which are normally kept off, or we trickle charge them from solar collectors. We also employ the Voss villagers for much labor, trade them credits or spare parts. We also take turns in manual labor. Keeps the men occupied, Commander. Or, at least we have done. We may have difficulty with a smaller garrison. The food and ammunition stores are both in surplus with the recent desertions."

Skywalker wandered over to the large window, looking down over the valley. The details seemed to be well beyond what he was concerned with now.

"Thank you, Centopt. So… you remain fairly un-mechanized. The patrols… I thought I heard tauntauns yesterday when we landed? Were they?"

The Centopt, who felt like he perhaps was boring his commander, now nodded.

"They are. We have 19 tauntauns, not including three foals. We had more than 30 up until last year, but there was a sickness that went through them."

"Ah, that's too bad. I worked with tauntauns. Very sweet creatures." Skywalker's gaze drifted. "On Hoth… we used quite a few. I've seen the legends that have been printed since assumed they were native to the planet, but in fact we brought them with us. They had a hard time adjusting to that level of cold, and we were quite explicit about that, but written records always get exaggerated. Almost none of them lasted long when they were exposed." Skywalker paused, looking to the horizon, wincing slightly. "I wouldn't mind taking one of them out myself, if that's possible."

"Of course, Sir. We have mounted patrols on the tauntauns. They've been reduced to two mounted men at the north and two at the south of the base, rotating to cover more ground, on duty every six hours."

The Centopt's nerves kept prompting him to return to a recitation of stats for the sake of Imperial efficiency. Skywalker's mind was still elsewhere. He looked over the valley, his cheek seemed to pulse as he contemplated something other than operational statistics. He turned back to Jafan. His gloved hand was holding aloft the steaming cup. He swept his other hand in a gesture towards the cabinets.

"The quote from the old Jedi I mentioned. It comes from there. Those are Jedi holocrons. Sith holocrons as well. Vader was collecting them from across the galaxy. Bringing them here. This is one of the main reasons I came here to claim this place. Are you familiar with what holocrons are?"

"Cannot say that I am, Sir."

Skywalker inhaled, gazing along the wall. "Well, I wasn't much, either. These small boxes each contain recordings of masters of the Force. It is said that they are each a map of an individual mind. They present their recordings to the user as a hologram of the master they have recorded, long after they have become one with the Force. Vader had sent out and searched the galaxy for as many of these as could be found at the end of the Jedi era."

Skywalker paused and sipped his tea. He inhaled the steam over the cup and continued.

"For the eons that the Jedi were in the galaxy, this is all that is left of their ways. Vader kept different properties. He spent time on Coruscant or Mustafar. But he kept coming here, so far from the core of the galaxy. Maybe to keep this collection obscure from the rest of the Empire. Anyway, he must have had his own reasons. He opened his personal keys to all these places and handed them to me in… those last moments. It must have been important. He never stopped his study of the Force."

Jafan had always been curious about the Force, and in his own mind was rousing an interest in the holocrons. He had never known what, exactly, Vader had coveted so secretly here all these years. Now, other questions bubbled to his mind he had never allowed himself to contemplate. He could see the Commander was truly not interested in the details of the report. Attempting to meet the young Jedi's casual demeanor, he found himself making conversation.

"The Force… they said, Commander, that the Jedi were forbidden knowledge. Force knowledge was banned as heresy in my lifetime. A kind of witchcraft, we were told, that the Empire had put an end to."

Skywalker sipped the tea, but didn't turn away from the wall. "They said that, I'm sure. I had never heard of Jedi until I was already nearly grown, and I found that Va — my father — had been one of the last of the Jedi during the Clone Wars."

He was serious now.

"I've felt the Force, and all its power, dark and light, and it has been my ally. It's not trickery. You saw the scars, I assume?"

"Sir?"

"I was changing my shirt when you walked in the room. I had been exercising this morning. I'm sure you saw the scars on my back. Someone who knew how to use the Force as a weapon did that."

Jafan nodded soberly. Fellow soldiers, they shared the brotherhood of knowing first hand what fire will do when carving into flesh. "Yes, Commander," he said, his voice trailing off quietly.

Skywalker went on, looking back at the holocrons.

"I don't know whether I should remove these to somewhere safer. It's also unclear to me whether holocrons can be copied. That is part of the purpose of the droid such as Threepio here, translating the holocron markings."

The golden droid turned at the mention of its name. Seeing that his master was not vying for his attention, he turned back to his work, scanning the holocron with a hand-held device, performing his repetitive, droid-minded tasks.

Skywalker walked over and stood before the Centopt. Jafan was a tall man, and he had to adjust his eyes slightly upward.

"Well, I have told you my purpose here. I have no idea how long I plan to be in residence. I have no idea what will become of the garrison. Your garrison, I believe, was probably here less to guard my father than to guard these artifacts. I am just a soldier, too, Centopt. I don't know what fate you and your men have in the future of the Empire. My offer still is to let all of you continue your duty here, and be paid, and the politics will be sorted out later."

The two men understood one another. Jafan appreciated the frankness of the young inheritor.

"I will speak directly, Commander. Troopers like myself are just pedestrians, we have always said. I was dedicated to the Empire and the Emperor, of course. I swore an oath. I kept it until his death. Now, I no longer know where else I would go. I have protected this castle… and the Voss… for a long time now. It is what I do. What I still want to do. For the sake of the Voss, at least."

Skywalker nodded. He looked away slightly over the horizon of the mountains, feeling that there wasn't much more he needed to say.

"It's strange how we've all ended up here, then. I grew up far away from the center of the Empire, on Tatooine. I had hoped to join the Imperial academy once, myself. What about yourself, Jafan?"

"I'm a city person, Commander. I grew up in the slums of Nar Shadaa. The stormtrooper corps was my first real home. I was stationed around the galaxy at times, but the corps itself was always home to me, before I settled here."

Luke nodded.

"You have all been here for years. How is the morale? Are the rest of the troopers eager to leave?"

"I believe those who truly desired most to leave were part of the party which left before your arrival, Commander. We have been isolated while we have been here, it's true. But many of us have made ties to the Voss. I have a Voss wife myself, Sir, and two children."

Skywalker understand why Jafan felt that Voss was truly his home.

"I am pleased that you have that. So how is it with the garrison and the native Voss? Do the other troopers feel the same as you?"

Jafan's face twitched slightly into the formal, neutral expression once again.

"The relations with the garrison and the Voss have been … complicated. We all interact with the Voss, and they trade heavily for services to the garrison and their Imperial credits. Food, repairs, clothing … other services..."

"Do others have wives the same as you?"

"Yes… some. Others do also use other… services the Voss provide."

"I see. You know, I have little interest in causing disruption in any harmony here. But I fought the Empire for a reason. I cannot allow slavery here."

Jafan met his gaze with a neutral expression as he contemplated whether Vader's son was testing his authority. The moment hung briefly.

"The Voss were not categorized as eligible for slavery in Imperial law, Sir, aside from those convicted of insurgence. I have to protect my men, but I have punished them for treating the Voss unjustly. I am a formal member of their society, having been married into it. I never have stood for them to be mistreated."

Skywalker sensed Jafan's integrity towards the Voss. He was nonetheless suspicious of what sort of services the stormtroopers may have procured from the locals.

"But for the Voss themselves. The status of these servants and… brothels?"

"Voss society is stratified. They have strict moral codes, stratified social hierarchy, based in a religion I have to say I don't quite understand. They have a feudal society of masters, mystics, artisans, and workers, who each live by the leave of others. Not slavery as the Imperials see it, but they are bound by families and oaths. I can't say I know for certain what kind of crimes go on within that society. It was never our job here to police the Voss unless they interfered with Imperial jurisdiction. Their views on both commerce and family are complicated. They deal in both with us outsiders, and they have very little here in this community. But they aren't brutalized. We've seen to that.

"They do keep to themselves, including maintaining order and laws in their society. They maintain no offworld transport of their own on this side of the planet, so there has been very little interaction with the outside worlds. There have been smugglers here, but they have mostly remained in the untamed, Nightmare Lands, rarely dealing with the Voss."

Jafan cleared his throat. Could the Jedi tell if he lied?

"As for the smugglers, Sir, the garrison has not interacted with them, either, as smugglers and traders have remained outside the Imperial Zone, and our mission here is guard duty and combat, not policing trade taxes."

Skywalker nodded some more, still waving the steaming teacup under his nose, but seemed to keep a questioning eye on Jafan. He said nothing, perhaps musing over which items Jafan had exaggerated or omitted. He finally spoke.

"I'll tell you this much, Centopt. There is much for me to see with inspecting the camp itself, meeting the Voss locals formally. I wonder, did Vader ever meet or host the Voss?"

"Not at all, Commander."

This didn't seem to come as a surprise to the young inheritor.

"I'd like to meet them at some point. I think they would know more, probably, about what drew Vader here. I won't keep you too long today, Centopt. I think I might come down and inspect the equipment of the garrison myself. If the TIE fighters are in working order, I might just take a look at them for myself. I've never really inspected one in working order up close. I'll say at 1400 hours?"

Jafan nodded. "Very good, Commander. I will be prepared to receive you."

"Thank you, Jafan. You're dismissed."

Jafan offered a quick salute which Skywalker quickly returned. The Centopt turned on his heels and exited. Jafan mused at how formal the interaction was, even as they had strained to be informal. But he couldn't also feel that the Rebel was somehow friendlier than he expected. He anticipated more tension to be present that there was.

He marched back down the hall with formal cadence. Eventually, his footsteps became less like a parade march, slackening to become more casual as he was further away. His feet were the only sounds other than the chirps and servo groans of the droids behind him.

1 **HUD:** Heads-Up Display. Obviously, stormtrooper helmets were practically impossible to see out of when looking only through the eye holes. Every helmet had a calibrated display showing a feed of the outside world, compensating for low or bright light, including vital information from comm-links, environmental scans, and other alert data. They could be tweaked to show specific visual ranges, such infra-red. They adjusted to the motion of the wearer's eyes, so this caused much confusion and disorientation if they weren't calibrated correctly.


	4. Chapter 04

At the edge of the village, the Voss men leaned on sticks as they poked into the ground, pushing dirt away from the stalks of their crops. They stooped occasionally, checking the leaves of their vines, putting the last of the beans into buckets. This was the cold season, the last harvest of the legumes. In the sunlight of this early day, they saw two forms walking toward them with the mountains and sun behind them. They were Imperial Stormtroopers down from the base. In their white shells, they all looked the same, but the farmers could see one of them had the orange shoulder mark which indicated his rank. They stood tall and waved to the trooper, calling him by his honorary name.

"Jafan-KO! Jafan-KO!"

Both troopers were carrying their weapons at ready, but the Centopt raised a hand in greeting. The Voss here kept small plantings of their crops in individual plots, and grazing fields in common. More farmers came out, as well as children and women, from the huts made of lowland stalks. The small dwellings were mostly tied together with thatched roofs, and were covered in a stucco made from ground up gourds that dried to a white clay-like coating. The dwellings, like the multi-colored skin of the natives, glistened in the sunlight. Most of the Voss were wrapped head to toe in thick tunics at this time of year, staying warm in the weakened light.

The crowd of natives cheered as Jafan walked in. He was a known man in this village, as he had taken a wife who was a daughter of a lesser mystic clan from another village far away. Jafan hadn't been home in nearly two weeks, as preparations were being made for the fate of the garrison in light of the Emperor's demise.

He waved his hands as he made his way through the crowd. He saw his wife, Tylo, standing outside their dwelling. He had built it up with the men of the village the summer they married, as building a new hut was a traditional marriage ceremony for Voss men. The Voss were particular in that sense, and they altered between the communal and private in their society in subtle ways not clear to outsiders. Spaces were sacred for families and clans, and spaces for mystics were more precious still. Seeing the small house again in the sunlight, Jafan was back to that distant time, remembering tying up the small stalks to build up the outside walls, and stuffing it with thatch and lime to keep out the insects. He was sweating with the others under the sun, performing the rote motions again and again to make a solid wall in a long circle, with the entry facing always facing the morning sun. The women of the village sang as they pounded the gourds in a large pit, the children dipping in buckets made from gourds and reeds, and bringing the paste to the men as they were building. They spread it as mortar between the stalks, and later, with more coarse aggregate added, as an exterior plaster, giving the Voss houses their unique look of dusty white, with wooden trim laid on the outside to be decorative.

He was never more tired or more happy than during those days. If he ever was born in the alleys of Nar Shadaa with that thankless, miserable woman who gave birth to him, if he ever was cut up in fights in those dank, filthy streets, headed toward prison or conscription before landing here, then he never knew it.

Jafan could felt his age even then. He felt the muscles in his back ache conspicuously, feeling the seams in his body where he'd had vat-grown arteries sewn in, slight discoloration where grafted muscle and skin were laid on to replace the original bits seared-off from a blaster shot. He remembered feeling the pulsing of the heart in his chest. His heart was a standard vat-cloned replacement most troopers received at age 30, after the original is weakened from years of abuse of stims and stress and the necessary aeroembolism from space-born landings. After all the years of duty that abused this poor sack of blood and shuffling bone, the sheer exhaustion of labor at building his own home, which was just a humble dwelling in a village somewhere, was the first time his weary body felt a sense of calm and completion. It was a sense of not just belonging to a family and a clan he chose, but belonging on a true accord; it was the first sense of freedom of his own self in a lifetime of service to the Empire and the Stormtrooper Corps. His love of Tylo had granted him these things he realized that orphans and stormtroopers rarely get to experience.

Walking up towards her, she met his gaze straight on for the whole approach. He felt pleased that the helmet hid his boyish grin, lest he betray such incontinent emotion unfitting to his rank. The last years tumbled forward in his mind in overlapping shadows. He remembered more of his happy days spent in that small single-room divided into multiple sections by floor screens; he and Tylo sharing small bowls of food, lying together, waking and watching the steam rise from their bodies after the cool nights; the moonlight and sunlight intermittently shining from the window in the roof. He remembered the cries of Panna when she came along, and later of Qyr. He thought again of the last time they were there as a family, the night the Emperor was killed, when they laid themselves down on the mat, he and Tylo, with both children huddling in close to him.

He made a point to come visit his family that night, lest he be drawn away suddenly on Imperial duty. In the fog before sleep overwhelms the mind, he had looked over to his armor resting against the wall. The face of the helmet stared back with its singular expression not unlike a rictus grin. The helmet was ever unchanging. More than just anonymous kit, it was the guise of the very essence of the Corps.

Jafan stared at it there in the dark while he drifted off to sleep, feeling himself floating outside his own body, the true soul face-to-face with the bone-colored, unchanging mask which observes, with accusation, the soft body that thinks it can drift away silently and unnoticed. The mask pulls back on that tether of duty, teasingly, as a cruel master might do to his servant. The visor reflected the firelight quivering to stay alive in the glowing charcoals, mimicking organic life, addressing Jafan in a mocking voice he heard in his mind: was that you, fragile wisp of a man, or me, who had been running, shouting so bravely along the wall at the Correllian insurrection, firing at those men at the top, firing until they screamed and fell and died? You, a calamity of exhausted flesh, lying there in a pantomime of death, were you ever so young and heartless, so deft at killing, so seemingly invulnerable?

On the precipice of unconsciousness, Jafan would often jostle awake; residual habits distilled during years of sleeping restlessly in crowded barracks, camps, or billets. The helmet always stares back but says nothing, only implying its cruel chortling as an overseer. He breathed deeply then, and dissolved back into feeling Tylo's arm on his waist, watching the woven blanket rise and fall where his daughter slept next to him. He could have turned the helm around to face the wall, but habits die hard; the troops were superstitious that helmets were shaped like old savage totems, and they turned them to face them and guard them while they slept. It was one of the rules.

Tylo would sometimes feel him stir in his sleep like that, his body once again jumping in those old phantom battles, permanent tapestries woven from draping nerves. She would sometimes hum a mystic chant softly, calming him. The Voss mystics could enter meditative trances that could soothe old warriors like this, and he loved her for it. She would help him in those nights when his breath was short, his mind hosting an audience of reclining ghosts.

The old Voss mystics said that warriors who died in battle would be granted entry to an eternal hall where they would drink and sing, and remember their glories forever.

What a terrible prospect for death, Jafan thought. At times he envied death, if only for the quiet obliteration of these endless unquiet thoughts. He'd prefer only lying here on this mat, his back pressed to the arms and breasts and hips of Tylo, and feeling little Panno's rising breath, and watching Qyr fuss in his sleep, and he wished he could know that oblivion would be like this; eternal bliss would be a rest and knowing nothing else — never needing to know anything else.

"You're late…"

Tylo frowned. She held a woven basket full of gathered leaves, fruits, and legumes she had pulled from the gardens that morning. She put it aside as Jafan had holstered his rifle and was muttering profane oaths as he was working to unlatch the helmet. He twisted it, and had the moment of blindness as the HUD disappeared, the airlock broke, and he liberated his head, gasping as he tasted the fresh air of the Vossik plain.

"Things happen, Woman. I'll tell you all of it in a moment."

Their bickering was only ritualistic. He turned to his side, and she pressed against him. They moved in tandem, as a couple with bodies familiar to one another and acquainted with this dance. He turned his back against her arms, slightly resisting her push to brace against the armor, and she reflexively began grasping and flipping the levers to help him remove the outer upper shell.

"So the Empire isn't going to kill us all after all?"

"So it seems."

His chest piece was unlatched. Tylo placed the two pieces to their side.

"We only get rumors down here the past weeks. The boys were coming down the mountain saying that the troopers were all leaving! We heard that the Rebels were going to bomb the castle! We expected the Empire to just burn off the whole mountain. And I thought, well, is my husband dead, or making some foolish last stand? I performed the ritual, assuming you were going to be dead."

"Not today," he mumbled. He had his arms lifted as she helped remove the rest of his upper shell. Above his waist, he was wearing just the black overskin up to and around his neck. His companion, Balia, was still in his armor. The children of the village came up to him, and were yelling in glee, and he was lifting them up, making a playful roar like a wookie as they squealed, giving them rides on his shoulders. He turned his back to the Centopt, letting him have these private moments.

Tylo spoke softly now, with the white-and-red hued flesh of her hand on his chest.

"If we hadn't been linked, I wouldn't have known you still live. For that reason only, I didn't panic."

Panna was out of the house, now, and ran up and hugged his leg.

"Daddy!" Grinning, Jafan lifted up his daughter to his shoulder. Half-Voss, Half-human, his children had beautiful color patterns on their skin like the Voss, but unlike the Voss had curling light-brown hair on their heads.

"Hey, Pip. That's one young one so far. Where's the boy off to?"

Tylo was still neutral in her expression, still expressing her displeasure. "Lessons, now. Learning with the elders."

"Already. How I forget how old they get…" Jafan turned walked inside their house.

"Do you have anything on? Any real food? I've had my fill of algal rations."

She left the armor and weapons outside the entrance and followed him in.

"Just the fish stew. I was going to put peppers into it. I know it's not your favorite."

"It sounds good to me."

Jafan sat down on the in the center of the room, in front of a slightly sunken pit with the pot cooking over the coals. He sat on the edge of the pit, relieved to take his full weight off his feet. Panna laid herself next to him, resting her head on his thigh, still covered with his leg plates. He reached down and gently stroked the hair out of his daughter's face.

"Did your mama make a good stew, today?"

She looked up and wrinkled her nose. "Too much fish!"

Tylo leaned down over the pit and began to pour some into a bowl. He observed how the coloring on her skin shimmered and wavered in the light like a jewel. She wore a patterned wrap with a white outer cloak, like a proper lady of a mystic house. He knew she'd fuss about something so plain; for someone as beautiful as she was, he thought, she was hardly vain. Or, certainly she — and the Voss overall perhaps — were more cagey than the brash, brutal Imperial types understood.

She was still worried. Tylo was a mystic by training, but a business woman, too, and she had made the decision to make this village her home. She had left her village when her parents died, she had told Jafan. It was a village which she said was a cousin to this one, but several days over the mountains. She told him she was barely 20 years old when she left Voss and worked as a mechanic's assistant on trade vessels for more than two years, learning the ways of traders. Many Voss had left their planet to see the galaxy and make money on the routes. She knew the Empire, and knew well what it was capable of.

Jafan began to relate the events of the past weeks.

"The Captain left, of course. We thought they may well have killed us all for staying behind."

Panna looked up and was frightened. She was only nine, and this may have been too much for her. He adjusted his tone.

"We stood and bid farewell. Captain Tiehel saluted me and handed me the Commander's baton of office." He performed his impersonation of the captain, making his voice high and flutey in imitation, "'…The command is yours, Centopt!' And so it is."

Tylo exhaled nervously. She sat down behind him and leaned against him, back to back, she with her legs crossed as he leaned forward and ate the soup. She leaned her head back against his shoulders. She liked feeling him like this, with his weight and bulk against her, feeling his body heat exhaled through the overskin top.

"The Rebels came?"

"They did. Or whatever they are. They actually came in an Imperial shuttle which they commandeered. In fact, it was a privateer crew. All for this claimant of Vader's Keep."

He continued to slurp the hot stew. It was better than he expected it could be, but he suspected it was the duration of time he spent away from real food that increased its appeal. He thought of Balia out there with the village kids. He'd invite him in to have a repast, soon. But Jafan wanted this moment with his family to last as long as possible. Balia would understand.

Tylo smiled and looked far away.

"The castle has belonged to Voss far longer than there was an Empire. We had many names for it. Black Mask only had it for a moment of time."

She had used 'Black Mask,' the name the locals had given Darth Vader in their own language. They had only seen him from afar, but the mystics had sung many songs on their nights, sensing there was something potent with mystic powers within him. Vader had the power of the very highest of the mystics, which they sensed immediately, and this kept the Voss awed and obedient to the arrangement. They had seen spacecraft and droids and speeder bikes come and go on their planet, and they yet kept their own ways. As far as most stormtroopers were concerned, a local population in thrall to an old religion just made for one less headache to deal with. Jafan knew it was more complicated than that for why the Voss held Vader in awe. But then, nothing about Vader ever seemed uncomplicated, either.

"This claimant who says he is Vader's son… He is young, just a boy to me. He exited the shuttle with a gray cloak obscuring most of his body and face. I don't know if he was trying to look like some grand old Jedi from a holo, or maybe it's delusions of grandeur."

"How do you know he is real? How do you know he is not a fake?"

"Well. We don't, but the codes are close enough to satisfy me. Most importantly, he presented to me an encrypted key on a chain, the one Vader kept on his neck. Now, it was opened, and if it was, I think only Vader could have opened it and given it to the boy, so maybe he is who he says."

Tylo looked up to the roof of the dwelling. Jafan had improved it since they had first built it up. The smoke no longer went up through a bare hole, but instead up toward salvaged metal piping that was at an angle to let it out without letting in the rain. Light came in from the transparent bubble of a TIE fighter he had fixed into the roof; the transparent metal had cracked and wouldn't stand up to the pressures of flight, but it was perfect to mount and seal at the top of a Voss hut to let the sun and moons illuminate the dwelling. The transparency was obscured by rivulets of water and frost on its surface, making the morning light coming into the dwelling slightly distorted. Many other Voss had imitated this style, re-purposing much scavenged Imperial material into their own structures.

Tylo turned her head to the side. "The mystics felt something. When you said the Emperor had died; we also felt it. We felt it when Black Mask died, too. Last night we met to meditate on this. We felt this boy coming, too. The _Waskaja_ that Black Mask had; there is something of that with him."

Jafan pondered, slurping more portions of soup and spooning meat and vegetables into his mouth.

"The Force," he said. "It only made sense that this boy had it, too."

"Hmm?"

"You know that – 'the Force' is what it is called in the Jedi religion. Or so I have known it called. Studying the Jedi was forbidden in Nar Shadaa when I grew up, but I've learned a few things. Vader was supposedly one of the last of the followers. So is his son, apparently. This kind of thing was forbidden for most Imperials my whole life."

Tylo said nothing for a moment. She was always hesitant about this whenever it was alluded to.

"I never understood, Jafan. They forbid the study of your religion? You weren't allowed to read about it at all?"

He continued chewing.

"Me? I didn't have much schooling, anyway, so reading? — no, not me. But it was mostly taught to us from holoscreens on down that history began with the Empire, and 'lesser worlds bow to the glory of the Emperor,' and so on. Same thing with training in the Imperial academies."

He paused. "I saw a woman burned for forbidden knowledge of the Force, once, back home."

Tylo swore an oath to a goddess of mercy in her own language. The idea of harming a mystic! Even touching a mystic without invitation was an unbearable breach of manners to the Voss.

She exhaled. "To burn her! The Empire always seemed to me so cruel! I thought Voss villages were all small minds and bullies when I was young. But the Empire has always shocked me."

He continued to reminisce.

"I was a boy, then. They did it on the promenade, publicly, to show the punishment for Jedi knowledge which was considered anti-Empire. The public gathered in a large mob, hooting like it was a damn Huttball match. She screamed when the flames did their work, and she lasted far longer than I thought she could."

He remembered the foul, drunken smell of that crowd, and the plume of choking ash that drifted over them. It was an evil thing, he thought, to see a mob chanting for someone's death, and he felt the shame of childish foolishness that he was part of it. He later saw the same type of drunken faces raging in the mobs in the Correllia insurrection, and he had no qualms about firing his weapon into them at the time.

The Empire was cruel. But he had never grown up imagining that there was something other than cruelty inherent in the will of living things. Some stormtroopers had gone Rebel on Correllia. Their punishment was to be stripped naked, hands bound, and hung upside down on chains above the shipyards on the cranes. The chains bit into the bare ankle flesh, and blood ran in rivulets down their bodies; the Correllian suns baked them as they gasped hoarsely, in whimpers, croaking for mothers as they went in and out of consciousness. They could shout "mercy," and the Inquisitor's men would begin lashing them with a whip made of barbed wires, cutting the flesh into ribbons, and their agony would be over in a matter of minutes, rather than hours. Either way, by the next morning, the birds began work on what was left of them.

Jafan didn't have the words to speak about that. He would never discuss what he had seen there with his family.

He stopped now. His breathing was shallow, and he realized the bowl and spoon were twitching in his hands. Tylo quickly surmised; her ability as a mystic intensified the bond with her husband; she could sense those things he'd never dare say. She turned and sat directly behind him. She held his head, soothing him, singing a mournful mystic chant for the memory of the dead.

Tylo wondered at this world of Imperials, this world where men and women worshiped not gods or the mystery of _Waskaja_ , but machines and fear and submission. She had traveled through it when she was young and she had left the village. Her father had told her of his own travels and told her where to go. This was just before he died. She had worked in a cargo route to learn the lay of the Empire, and she'd met many characters within the galaxy. To some of them, in particular, she had made certain promises about her return to Voss, but she wouldn't dare bring that up in front of Jafan for his own safety. She wasn't worried about that now, however. She felt her husband himself relax against her touch, and his calm breathing returned.

"I spoke to him – Vader's son. A couple of times now. He assured us first that our pay would continue, and he asked us to stay on post because Vader's Keep still needs a guard. I didn't quibble."

She continued massaging his head.

"So you get paid credits? That is good? A pension?"

Jafan shook his head gently within Tylo's hands.

"We'll get paid for now, which will mollify the men a bit who worried they may have made the wrong decision in staying with the garrison. Pension — who even knows? If the Empire is fallen, I cannot imagine so. To tell the truth, Ty, I am beyond caring. The pension wouldn't matter here. We could set up and continue our life. I could take up planting."

"I would like that if you did."

"Besides, the smugglers… with our connections to the settlement, I could be a navigator, or a security crew on those freighters. A few runs would get us some ready credits."

She smiled.

"Jafan the pirate. Former stormtrooper for hire."

"I won't be the only one. I fear the galaxy may be overrun with freelancers and drifters if the Corps is truly disbanded."

He thought of Tonu, the smuggler. He hadn't seen him since before the death of the Emperor, but they had a profitable friendship. If anyone could use a good hand, it would be Tonu and his crew. They brought contraband in which the garrison used readily, but also the offworld curiosities the Voss would trade for. Maybe without the Empire, there could be a real port on this side of the planet. Why not? Populations were scattered. But Voss still needed goods, and there were those would pay for them. The Voss also always had restless youth looking to adventure off-world. In his mind, he was already a jowly old man with a rich tunic and robe in a counting house, while Tylo commanded fleets of cargo. He shook himself out of it after a moment. Just delusions of grandeur, again. He allowed himself a chortle.

"I have leave to spend the day and night here. I'll go back to the garrison tomorrow."

Tylo had been meditative as she chanted, and was now was curious. "You said the son has the mystic power of Black Mask. Has he come here just to live? You don't seem to think he'll stay."

Jafan replied. "It seems Black Mask was among the last of the followers of the Force. He gathered artifacts up there in the Keep. He was storing as many records as he could gather from across the galaxy up there. That is what the son he told me his purpose is. He has droids sorting through it all."

Tylo pondered this. "There are stories. The mystics had dealt with off-worlders thousands of years ago, and they shared mystic abilities with them then as well. As in the time of the tyrants. There may be records here of that, as well."

Jafan's mind was continuing elsewhere as she continued.

"I hope to stop by the settlement, soon, maybe parlay with the smugglers, see where things stand."

Tylo was an experienced negotiator and translator for the smugglers who traded with the Voss. It was a small source of income, but it also established her skill and connection with the outsiders. She also needed to meet with the outsiders who sometimes sent messages for her from far away. Perhaps, now with the Empire crumbling, she could explain that part to Jafan. But for now, she held her tongue.

"Yes, perhaps," she replied. Her mind was running to the thoughts of what would happen now, if the offworld mystics might be coming there; searchers of knowledge of Black Mask. Would they come to the Voss as well?

Jafan finished his bowl. He stretched his back and lied down. He rubbed Panna's head some more. She brightened up and began telling him about her lessons. She knew all the cities of Voss, now, and she could recite the history of the mystics. She continued to tell him about the nerff herds, about how she was now helping in gathering up the wool the small ones left in the brambles. She gathered them up, helping with weaving, and brought them to the spinners.

Jafan no longer spoke. He listened to the chattering of his daughter. There were the sounds of Tylo continuing a song, the embers of the fire crackling, and the periodic shouts of play coming from outside in the street. The skylight still provided weak light through the screen covered with frost and dew. He realized he was content. It was a rare feeling. He smiled, hoping it would last beyond this day. In his experience, it rarely would.


	5. Chapter 05

Tylo pulled her hood over her face, shielding herself from the wind. Coming down from the mountains at first light, she could feel the bite of the morning air. The two shaggy nerffs behind her grunted with with their brute resolve, steam from their nostrils dissipating after each exhale.

Her son Qyr followed behind her dutifully, holding the reigns of the lead nerff, which swung its massive head in lumbering motions while both child and beast sleepily stared at the ground. Qyr wasn't happy getting up this early to go the market. He'd expressed this opinion for much of the journey thus far in the manner of a seven year-old, through protestations and grumbling. Finally, fatigue and resolution had met so that he focused instead on the obstinate nerff on the tether, and he dutifully trudged forward, now looking forward to a hot breakfast in the stalls at the market.

The nerffs were reigned one behind the other, both laden with packs of goods to sell. They carried the white mountain gourd paste which was useful as a mortar and repair material in town, river reeds which were also tough when woven together with rope, and five by eight-count stacks of the hard river stalks which were useful to the settlers for buildings or possibly making spears. These would get her only a few coins, even obtained as they were with much toil in the mountains.

These goods were only the most minimal reason for procuring a stall, however, as her status as a mystic fluent in Basic would enable her to be hired as a go-between and witness for contracts for the large transactions of the smugglers and merchants. This would earn her several times more as a fee than the goods themselves would fetch. For that reason, she wanted to be at the market as near opening as possible.

They had been walking for at least an hour when they came to a path at the base of the mountain, joining a queue of other Voss from the hills with nerffs and dewbacks, and some with just carts pulled by their own arms, variously laden with beans, gourds, liquor, and nerff wool. Ahead, the clearing with the settlement was just visible at the horizon. The flat plain at the base of the mountain made for a convenient Imperial trade zone wherein shuttles could land. Tylo looked up at the trail ahead. The sun reflected against the white and reddish patterns of her Voss skin. She could see there were more freighters and shuttles than usual at the edges of the settlement. Since the Empire had faltered at Endor, the galaxy was in a flux, and the traders were eager to fill the gaps for interplanetary trade. The routes were no longer closely policed and regulated. That also meant smugglers, seekers, slavers, bounty hunters, colonists, pimps, pirates, and punters all were setting out in the ensuing chaos as well. Where the Empire's authority had attenuated, the arbitrary rule of gangsters now was threatening. Wise to these odds, she also had two blasters in holsters under her cloak

Tylo played her part well. To the outsiders, she would speak Basic with a thick accent, putting on exaggerated gesticulations expected of Voss village folk. They'd pay her no mind, assuming her to be a simple woman, surely not important or threatening. In the right circumstances, her Basic was pitch-perfect, as well as her navigational knowledge of many key systems. Here and now she was most prized for her knowledge of the going price for goods and services, and the trust that a mystic's mark on a contract would be honored by the Voss. The natives knew she was a powerful mystic, but the off-worlders only knew what she needed them to know.

::: | ::: | :::

A single figure ducked into the _Rancor's Head_ public house. Unlike most of the patrons in the settlement, he wore a clean gray-and-red patterned cloak with a freshly cropped head of hair, which instantly identified him as Imperial military.

The tavern, like most of the structures around the settlement, was built from used cargo containers joined together with plasma-welds. Two massive containers formed the main floor of the pub. This led into other containers joined at angles, allowing for private side rooms for dining and entertainment. The main room was long and narrow per the limitations of the container dimensions. Soft plasma lights fixed to the ceiling kept the shadows wide, and much of the clientele slightly obscured, as they preferred to have it. A Twi'lek man with humorless scars on his face was mixing drinks with droid hosts at the very back, with a panel separating him from a small kitchen. Soft tones of pre-recorded Coruscant pop music played through speakers hidden in the walls, helping to keep enough of a noisy drone to keep private conversations at booths, re-purposed from freighter couches and plastoid tables, from being easily overheard.

Most of the patrons, human or not, wore the uniform of smugglers: motley assortments of armor or environmental suits, unkempt or overly coiffed hair with facial patterns to match, outlandish clan scarves and jerkins that ran from utilitarian to garish, and all with extra slings and pouches for spare scanners, blasters, spanners, and vibroknives.

The dark-haired Imperial with shaggy eyebrows drew some attention from eyes used to watching movement from the corners, all while outwardly seeming not to watch anything. Such skills were necessary for shadow-dwelling denizens of this pub who often occasioned to actively avoid warrants for their activities.

The Imperial walked with an upright posture that betrayed vat-grafted muscle, and a gait and a rattle that gave away that he was certainly armed. Clearly, the trademark of a soldier by trade, which could mean a constable? A courier? Each trader at the tables exhaled slightly as the figure moved past. He swiveled his head, eyes hitting each shadow's slant, looking for something or someone. Finally, his eyes narrowed on one of the entrances to a side container, out of which a bellowing laugh was heard. He'd found his quarry.

He pushed aside the beaded curtain and entered the small private container/room. The containers were narrow enough which allowed for a long table in the middle of the container with soft plastoid chairs arranged around it. He was met by a bearded man seated to his left. Kale didn't know him. He was rough looking, dressed in bantha leather with a fur nexu collar and bare arms. His beard went down in a braid to his chest, contrasting his otherwise closely cropped brown hair. He had a scowling expression on his face as he gazed at another bearded man, the one they both were there to meet. This man was wider-chested than the barbarian, and with a neat, dandyish light-brown beard, decked out in Mandalorian armor, bouncing two female Voss dancers on his legs, each laughing loudly in turn as they stroked his chest armor admiringly in a meretricious way, encouraging his joyful bellows. His helmet, with its distinctive, curved-T-shaped visor, was on the table in front of him. His armor and the helmet were customized with red detailing on them. He was Jeet Syllba, formerly of Death Watch of Mandalore, and now bounty hunter for hire.

"Sergeant Kale!" The vivacious and wide Mandalorian exclaimed. "Glad to see you made it."

Kale nodded and met the eyes of the braided-beard man while he addressed the Mandalorian.

"Well, bounty hunter, I expected you to come alone. Is this one of the mercenaries, or your new valet?"

Braided-beard met his gaze with no change in expression and diffidently took a swig of his cup. His voice was a growl as he looked up at Kale.

"You Corps?"

"Stormtrooper NZU33, rank of E6, formerly of the Correllian Watch, now of the Voss garrison. And you?"

The reply was a grunt.

"Intan. Stormtrooper CZ8TQ, also E6. Of the Marauders. We are all former stormtroopers. I am formerly of the 53rd cav, disbanded after Endor."

He leaned over, leaning out of his thick jacket, showing a large tattoo of the Imperial crest on his left bicep.

Kale looked at him warily.

"That beard is not regulation, Sergeant. Did you grow that in matter of months?"

Intan's laugh was raspy and hollow, certainly one that belonged to someone who had lived for a long time in stormtrooper prefabricated lodgings, breathing industrially cycled air.

"Try four years, Trooper. The Empire's been stretched thin for a long time. We were stationed on the moon of Endor — the far side — doing routine patrols while they built that second station. They had the shield on the other end, with all of that garrison, and they left us to just to rot in the forest. They didn't bother to provision us, so we had to fend for ourselves for food for supplies. We got good at it. The Empire couldn't afford to care about us any more. Worked ourselves up a small society, made our own rules. We had no orders at all. Knew nothing of any rebel attacks until the day we saw something bright in the sky, and then we knew that was all for our tour."

"And now," Jeet broke in, broadly grinning, "they are specialists for a price!" He lifted the two Voss dancers off his knee. "If you wouldn't mind, my dears, we have some business to discuss."

As the two women left, Kale paused, smiled with sadism more than mirth, turned back to the Mandalorian.

"So, in terms of the deal?"

"The deal sounds rich, indeed" Jeet said, toasting the air with his grog and taking a swig. "Would you care for a drink, Kale?"

"I'm on duty," Kale replied.

Intan laughed.

"Still with the spirit of the Corps and spit-polish regulation, I see?"

Ignoring that, Kale carried on.

"So, the Jedi — or the pretend Jedi — I believe he's here, and he's taken possession of Vader's Keep. But he is no Vader."

"Just a boy, I understand," Jeet snorted.

"A boy with a generous price on his head from the Hutts," Intan added.

Kale smirked. He leaned back in his seat, resting his hands on his grey-and-red cloak.

"Yes. Not to mention that there are other spoils. Vader kept something up there in the castle which he was precious about. We in the garrison never knew the nature of it. But Vader did nothing else there I know of but pace and pout and pray to his idols. I have to assume that they are Jedi relics of some sort. Sure to fetch a price."

"And what is it you are offering us, Kale?" Intan queried. "Are we partners on this?"

Kale answered. "Straight to the point, eh? You don't mix words, Sergeant. I can appreciate that. My mission from my superiors is very plain. The Empire shares a goal with the Mandalorian clans. We want the Jedi dead. I would say for you and the Marauder mercenaries, the Voss village is yours. Take any of the toads as slaves. For the bounty of whatever it was that Vader hid, that we decide after the fact. All Imperial property goes with me back to the Empire. Any riches you find, say, a 10% finder's fee?"

Jeet smirked, raising his mug.

"And the Empire — do they approve of this 'finder's fee?'"

"The Empire has better things to do right now than worry about my ability to find compensation for my expenses."

Jeet maintained his smirk. He knew now what he was dealing with. An Imperial with an eye towards enrichment was useful. A corruptible ally presented a delicate balance for a bounty hunter. Depending on the intelligence involved, it would either be mutually profitable, but also possible to lead to stumbles and get people killed. This game was a careful dance.

His face turned grave for a moment.

"That is acceptable to me. The Marauders will do the neutralization of the remainder of the garrison, and that's what they will be paid for. I want the head of Skywalker. The Hutts will pay well for it. Further, the Mandalorian confederation have a price as well. He will pay for what he did to a legendary warrior. To be tossed into a Sarlacc pit like a common criminal! I'll remove the Jedi's limbs. And I'll take my time."

Intan grunted. "Boba Fett. The Mandalorians want Skywalker for what he did to a bounty hunter named Fett."

Kale turned back toward Jeet.

"Then we have our fee. We decide on the value of the spoils after the fact. You have your bounty and your revenge."

Jeet shook his head.

"The deal is 50/50. You get your taste, Kale. The Marauders make out what they will, and I split it."

Intan laughed.

"There are 20 of us, Mandalorian. Hardened warriors. Do you think you can do this without us? Do you think you can take on the garrison and the village? You'll take 10% .

Jeet guffawed and took a swig from his cup. He exhaled slowly and smiled.

"Gentlemen. If you wish to raid a Voss village, and take on a foolish garrison remnant, who am I to stop you? But once you draw out the Jedi, how are your odds? Still think you will win? How many of your men will you lose?" Jeet paused for effect. "50/50. And consider that generous. Perhaps the taste for our friend here should come only out of your half?"

Intan stroked his beard. He knew he had few cards to play, and Jeet was toying with pressing him further. They were cautious men who didn't wish to recklessly take on both a Jedi and a garrison. Intan also gambled with facing the prospect of losing the lives of men he needed. There was always the possibility, too, that they would pull this off and all walk away rich. The Voss would be valuable as slaves, no matter what price Vader's horde would fetch. There was also the unspoken realization that plans for divvying up spoils were always preliminary until the battle had actually taken place.

"Alright," Intan drawled, "but if that's the deal, then we have another requirement. You want me and my men to put up our lives for the small share, here, we're going to require payment up front."

Jeet nodded. "A retainer for services. Rather routine for bounty contracts like this."

Intan was not improving his opinion of the Mandalorian. The man used too many words. Kale just observed and said nothing.

Jeet opened a bag kept just under his chest armor. He moved slightly, obscuring the view from the others. He counted out something and tossed a bag up on the table.

"500 credits for each of your men. That's 10,000 upfront. A good day's pay for men of fortune, I should think. Six months of a trooper's salary, I understand."

Intan reached for the bag, but it flew suddenly back into Jeet's gauntlet.

"Ah ah! I'll pay your men in person when we gather together. What faith do I have that a group that calls itself 'The Marauders' wouldn't take this and flee?"

Intan growled. "Alright, you have your deal, Mandalorian. When do we move?"

Jeet looked at Kale, who then spoke up. "Knowing the garrison, I suspect they are defensive, unsure of the situation. Let them get comfortable. If no attack comes in the first week, they may be lulled into feeling secure. They are uncreative fools, bound in their duty to the rebel Jedi as though he was entitled to the respect of Lord Vader. The boy will be distracted, I'm sure, counting his spoils in Vader's castle. We want to limit our waiting time as well, as the boy may also have more time to secure the treasures and get them transported. I'll send each of you coordinates as to where we will meet, and which time, including which direction to come from. I know how the area is patrolled, and especially with a reduced garrison, I know just how to approach it."

Kale handed each man a comm-link. "Pre-encypted, pre-coded. If you need to reach me, do so only through that. Through it, I will also release detailed instructions."

The men looked at one another. Jeet Syllba rolled his gloves up and gathered his helmet. Without meeting their eyes, he downed the last of his ale.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe that we all have an understanding. I have a standing date with two of the very fine ladies you met earlier this evening. I think this business is concluded."

As Jeet stood up and began to exit from the room, Intan growled. "Make sure you bring that bag next time, Mandalorian, or my men walk."

Bowing slightly, Jeet nodded at the two men. "Naturally!" And he was gone through the beaded curtains.

Kale glanced at Intan who took a swig of his ale. "I'll take you up on that drink now."

Intan slightly smirked finally. "Not on duty, Sergeant?"

"Not anymore. The deal is concluded."

The men called over a hostess droid and ordered up more rounds of Vossik ale. Kale had barely even tasted it while he was stationed on Voss. The first few sips had already gone to his head as he carried on conversing on old battles and comparing scars with Intan.

Kale paused and asked the Marauder a serious question. "Do you trust the Mandalorian?"

Intan chuckled. "Not really. If he wasn't wearing that armor, I'd think he was a Coruscanter with soft hands playing dress-up. The Mandalorians are well hard. They'd skin ya if they thought you were stealing their valor and wearing a costume."

Kale pondered this. "I haven't dealt with him before. I was passed the name and contacted him through Imperial Intelligence. The Mandalorians all earn their armor at some point. But who knows how long ago that was? He strikes me as a dandy. A little reckless."

"Here now," Intan scowled, "that trick with the bag? Is he some kind of a Force user, pulling it over that way?"

"No, he wouldn't be so casual about it. It's an old trick, done with some kind of micro-thread he pulls back on. It's what worries me, to be truthful. If he plays games like that…"

"Maybe the man is not all he claims to be?" Intan finished. "Here, now, here's a lovely scene, then. Picture that Mandalorian, fighting bravely, on to the end, kills the Jedi, and falls in the process. Poor, heroic Jeet Syllba, martyr for the Mandalore. Meanwhile, we bring the Jedi's head and collect the bounty."

"Double the bounty," Kale smirked. "The Hutts and the Mandalorians will pay. And who knows, maybe for avenging poor Jeet Syllba, who fell as a hero, as well?"

Intan nodded. The men clinked their mugs in a toast to the departed Emperor.

::: | ::: | :::

Four tauntauns followed one another down the mountain path. Their mixture of reptilian and mammalian features made them unique and beloved creatures in the galaxy. With their bipedal nature of two massive rear legs, and smaller forelegs, they stood naturally upright, able to see for distances better than most pack animals. Warm blooded, and covered with gray and white long feathers so fine that they looked and felt practically like fur, they were well-suited to cold or mountainous climates in the galaxy. Their nature as herd animals meant they would constantly growl and chirrup at one another, testing one another's approximate location as they stepped forward over the frosty ground. Each held a rider on its shoulders. The creatures had grown accustomed to their humanoid companions, feeling their grasp and guidance as a secure partnership of beast and rider.

One stormtrooper sat in the saddle on the lead tauntaun, followed by another mounted man dressed in a hooded, patterned gray-and-black cloak which covered his face and arms like a large poncho, shielding him from the chill. Two other mounted stormtroopers took up the rear.

Luke Skywalker was warm under his cloak, even if the air was brisk. Voss had spectacular views along the mountain trails, blanketed with forests below of burnt-orange foliage, broken by rifts in the ground that went down into caverns below, and broad sloping plains up above. The mid-morning light was spread across a milky-blue sky, given life by an awakening sun. The two moons were still visible in the sky above the horizon, peering over them like the eyes of a goddess. That's what the Voss mystics believed, anyway, or so Luke's research into their culture had told him.

He felt himself rocking gently as the muscles of the creature beneath him flexed, legs finding their way on the path. He held on closely to the reigns, wrapping his arms next to the powerful neck that bobbed slightly with the momentum, craning from one side to another, making her chittering, growling tauntaun noises, her senses working to absorb the sounds and smells of the surroundings.

The other troopers, Jafan in front, and Desek and Heff behind him, had their heads on a swivel. They were used to routine patrols, and as experienced troopers they knew to view the terrain around them as potent with an agency to conceal danger, even though they were hardly likely to meet even a friendly traveler on these desolate paths.

They had traveled on this patrol daily for the past three days. Luke was taking time to get to know the surroundings of Voss. He was bonding with the remaining members of the garrison, and getting used to working with them as a unit. They had found it novel at first, traveling with a Jedi, as Vader was anything but familiar with the squad-level soldiers. But Vader was gone. And despite it all, the stormtroopers began to warm to this young pretend-Jedi who seemed, at least, to be possibly close to the real thing.

Jafan pressed his heels on the stirrups into the tauntaun's side, holding up his right hand with his back to the squad. The other three riders followed in turn, halting their mounts. The creatures themselves now were quiet, and their noses were in the air, flexing, and drawing in scent.

Suddenly, Jafan pulled hard on the reigns of his tauntaun, pressing into the haunches with his feet. The tauntaun squealed, spinning, and Jafan turned toward Luke, surprising him with the velocity with which he slammed his body into the Jedi, attempting to wrap his arms around him, pulling him violently from the saddle to fall to the ground.

Luke had sensed the urgency with which Jafan moved, but had no feeling that he was going to attack him. Finding himself off balance, tumbling through the air, his momentum was arrested by the ground crashing hard into his back. A whining hiss was heard overhead as a plasma bolt slammed into the ground just above him.

Luke was rolling now, his training taking over as he searched for cover off the side of the path. There was shouting. Desek, the wide, bulky stormtrooper, leapt off his equally squat and muscular tauntaun to the ground with the blunt trajectory of a meteorite. The man was more coordinated than he seemed, though, landing on his side and rolling, grunts heard filtered through the speaker of his helmet. Heff, the slim Chiss trooper, blue skin behind the white armor, had seemed to slip gracefully from the saddle in one movement, now lying on the ground in a prone position, with his blaster rifle trained upward.

Luke was crouching. Jafan had insisted he take at least a simple blaster pistol for protection, which he felt on his belt. His comfort level, though, had been increasing for his use of the lightsaber, and he moved his hands to the pommel of the weapon.

He looked to his left, and Jafan was crouching, resting his blaster at a downward angle as he angled his head to get a quick view over cover. How had Jafan realized that the blaster shot was coming? Luke looked at the trooper now, his face hidden behind the helmet, of course, but reached through the Force and truly inspected him.

"Sir!" The stormtrooper non-com shouted, "the shot came from the high ridge! There are three of them! It's an ambush, and we have to take them out!"

Luke peered up towards the ridge. He saw a tiny blur of movement, then a warm sensation blazed through his mind, and he ducked out of sight immediately as another bolt came his way. He sensed the danger through the Force that time, saving his life.

"Sir! We've got to move!"

"Wait!" Luke shouted. "How do you know it's not a trap? Not trying to draw us up to higher ground to meet reinforcements?"

Jafan hesitated a moment, which hung like a lifetime in their present urgency.

"Bounty hunter most likely, Sir! That was a hunting rifle, aimed for a kill shot. They couldn't have snuck anything much larger than that past our sensors. We've got to go now! Stay low, Sir."

Luke hesitated only a moment. Now his more rational mind, honed by military discipline, overtook his momentary meditation within the Force.

"You go left. I'll take them on the right."

Jafan was stunned.

"Sir! You're their target. You should stay low!"

Luke was firm now, waking up out of his trance and a sense of duty taking over.

"Yes, but I'm also a Jedi, and I'm apparently Lord of the Castle. So you have your orders, Centopt."

"Sir! Jafan gave a quick salute and tumbled over to Heff and Desek."

Now the shouting began anew as they maneuvered up the ridge. Jafan fired his blaster up at the outcropping, keeping the heads of the bounty hunters down as Heff swiftly ran ten meters forward and dove to cover on the ground. In succession, Heff then stood up and fired, as Jafan and Desek took turns dashing forward, diving into ground, and then sitting up to return fire on the hill position. They were professional troopers, maneuvering with practiced discipline, advancing as an infantry squad trained to overrun their target: fire, take casualties, advance. In succession, as they were trained, they proceeded up the hill.

Luke crept down through the bushes, his cloak slightly obscuring his view, but also providing some camouflage. His thighs ached as he leaned downward, moving forward fast but crouching as low as possible, feeling his knees bunching up against his chest as he pumped them against the ground. He was breathing heavily, too. A long time in different climates than Voss had left him unaccustomed to this elevation, and crouching and compressing his lungs didn't help. He could hear the tauntauns yowling as they ran confusedly from the firing, probably toward the valley. He winced. He'd hate to seem then hurt. Hopefully the yowling of the creatures, along with the constant firing from the stormtroopers, would be a distraction to the bounty hunters.

Panting, Luke came around to the edge of the ridge where he could see movement and hear sounds above him. There were individuals moving up there. Glimpses of a head with ridges popped in and out of view, and he heard hissing and snarling sounds. Then he saw the heads moving up, firing on the stormtroopers who were advancing. They were Trandoshans — reptilians renowned as trophy hunters. The stormtrooper shouts were getting louder, advancing up from the other side. The cover fire tore up smoking ends of the boulders the Trandoshans were using for cover. Luke was close to them, now, directly below.

A pair of bright yellow eyes peered over the rocks and zeroed in on Luke, and they suddenly narrowed as the Trandoshan let loose a terrifying hiss, leaping with shocking speed over the rocky barrier and coming down towards him. The bounty hunter was intimidating from the green and yellow glistening scaly skin, to the taught bright orange fibrous armor over its body. The other Trandoshan in the pit let loose a protesting snarl at the one who came toward Luke, as he was still manning the rifle and firing down on the stormtroopers who were advancing from the other side. The snarl was no use, however, as the orange-armored one was now fixed on the Jedi, and maybe the glory that was within grasp.

Luke threw off his cloak, as he would be able to move more freely with just the lighter shirt and military jerkin. His lightsaber came alive in a hiss, and the glowing, green blade swung in front of him.

The Trandoshan reached the ground and immediately dropped to a firing stance on a knee, lifting a blaster rifle with a long barrel and a mechanical glass sight that automatically flipped itself into position and came alive with pulsing light. This was all done with the lithe precision and speed of a skilled killer. Luke continued turning his saber as he felt the charge of the Force through his body, and reached out toward the Trandoshan less than 20 meters in front of him. As the bounty hunter fired, Luke pulled the tip of the blaster askew through the Force, drawing the plasma bolts directly into the path of the lightsaber, thwarting three quick blasts in succession. Luke had practiced the maneuver thousands of times, but the timing always left his heart in his mouth, and his body protested with involuntary fear as the bolts sheared off, small burning cinders gently floating to the ground and peppering his clothes and face.

He was calm, feeling the Force in full, and reached out again, slamming against his foe like a hammer. The Trandoshan was phenomenally strong, and with Luke's full Force push, it dropped the hunter against the rocks behind it. The sheer strength of the reptilian, however, allowed it to still stay upright, if slightly stunned. The rifle's delicate metallic-glass sight was cracked. The bounty hunter snarled, discarding the weapon, and pulled an electrostaff from its back, and charged the Jedi.

Luke hadn't faced an electrostaff before. He steadied himself, both feet planted on the ground with the saber held in front of him, two hands on the pommel. He shuffled forward, keeping his balance, and raised the blazing green blade above his head to strike his opponent. The Trandoshan was faster than any human, however, and was on him in the blink of an eye. Only through the Force was Luke able to see time slowed down, enabling him to swing the saber down, matching the trajectory of the staff. He hadn't accounted for the plasma blades on the ends, but managed only to parry the blow from the top end of the staff with his saber, finding himself knocked back savagely. The ground and the sky were exchanged in quick succession.

Training instincts took over. Luke flew backward, turned his momentum into a flip, and tumbled over once more, landing on his feet and lowering to a crouch. By the time he looked up, the Trandoshan was on him, swinging the staff downward, attempting a decapitating blow.

Luke was separated from his lightsaber, which had fallen from his hand during his flip. He had no time to worry about that. He strained his muscles to leap again, pushing hard against the ground with the Force, flying over his foe, landing hard ten meters behind the bounty hunter just as it had lunged forward. Luke's chest was flexing with gasping breaths, and his legs screamed in protest now as he strained to steady himself back upright. His opponent hardly missed a step after his leap through the air, now spinning around to face him, twirling the staff, changing from hand to hand in an intimidating display. Snarling, the Trandoshan moved forward. With swiftness too fast to follow with human sight, it pounced.

Luke had closed his eyes. The world was black. Then he fell into the Force with a sensation like being dunked into an ocean. He was aware of the illuminating presence of the Force around him. The lightsaber had tumbled down the side of mountain, but he found it, and it flew into his hand. In the darkened mirror of the Force, he could see the Trandoshan glittering clearly, potent and alive. In what seemed like one swift movement, the lightsaber ignited, dropped in Luke's hand, and flicked neatly upward as the Trandoshan began the swing. Luke sliced cleanly through the staff.

Luke opened his eyes now, and held his saber while maintaining a defensive stance. The Trandoshan's balance was overtaken by the broken staff, and both ends flew on opposite sides of its body. But it was only thrown off for a moment. The reptilian crouched and began turning to Luke's left, who pivoted to follow the hunter.

"Yield!" Luke shouted. He had destroyed both weapons, and Jedi code required that he give his opponent the chance to surrender when disarmed. The Trandoshan was not yet as disarmed as Luke had assumed, however. Rearing up already in a swing up and above the human, massive claws on the reptilian hand whistled down and sliced through Luke's right shoulder, downward just above his ribs. Luke couldn't arrest the momentum, and he felt a wet explosion on his chest as his skin and muscle were torn asunder.

The Jedi stepped back, planted a foot and spun his blade, catching the Trandoshan at the left elbow, severing the forearm. The useless limb with its bloodied claws tumbled to the ground. A monstrous growl in pain and rage was unleashed, and the Trandoshan turned again, lifting up its right arm to begin another fearsome swing with those claws.

"Yield!" Luke screamed again. But still to no effect. Bleeding severely, Luke knew he had to end this before he began to weaken. Through the Force again, he entered the blackness, and saw only the slowed-down illumination of the two bodies struggling as if they were suspended in a dense liquid. He pushed out, avoided the swing of the arm and claws, holding out the saber at just the proper angle as the Trandoshan leapt forward and impaled itself through its chest on the green lightsaber. The momentum served to drive the plasma blade through the armor, skin, gristle, bone, and out of the creature's back.

Opening his eyes, Luke was now face to face with his reptilian foe, jaws just above his hairline. It looked down at him, snarling, an evil toxic stink of drool falling down from the jaws. Then there was a gurgle, a wheezing gasp, and the Trandoshan's yellow eyes went opaque. The creature fell back, dead as it hit the ground.

Back from the Force trance, Luke was in the world again, feeling faint as the blood streamed down his side. His green weapon collapsed back into the pommel with a hiss. He now felt the sharp wind as the air met his viscera. He knew he'd need help. Gasping, he looked up to see the situation at the rock outcropping.

As he had dueled, the stormtroopers had advanced to the top of the hill. The other Trandoshan had continued to snarl, firing down on them, putting aside the long-range rifle, and now using a blaster to stream bolts at them furiously. This exposed its head briefly, and there was a quick succession of shots aimed its way, exploding the rocks around it, and finally a scream as it fell back with a hit. Jafan's voiced screamed "stoppage!" as he smacked at his overheated blaster. Heff and Desek advanced, still firing, and overtook the rim of the outcropping. They leapt into it, and Luke could no longer see, but heard more blaster shots, and more Trandoshan snarls.

Both stormtroopers looked up as Luke walked up the path and stood over the rim of the pit. They stood over the body of the dead Trandoshan, blaster burns covering the side of its body. Jafan was running up from the other side, his armor clanking as he was simultaneously pulling the charge coil out of his blaster rifle and re-setting it, pulling back the weapon to his chest plate to absorb the recoil, and leapt into the pit as well.

There was one Trandoshan left. Smaller than the others, it wore only a cloth tunic, and its reptilian skin was green and speckled with red. It was shot in the side and was yowling. Bulky trooper Desek stood on its chest, having disarmed it, and was holding his blaster at its face. The Trandoshan kept squealing, sounding frightened, speaking quickly in its language. Heff nodded, understanding some of the rapid chatter.

Jafan quickly looked past Luke, raising his blaster toward the other dead Trandoshan down the path, eyeing the corpse for a moment before being satisfied that Luke had finished it off. He turned his eyes back to the Jedi.

"Commander! By the gods!"

Luke realized now what he must have looked like: his jerkin shredded on his left side and blood pouring out over his heaving chest.

"Open your jacket, Sir." Jafan fumbled in his side satchel as Luke removed the torn fabric from his chest, his body protesting in agony. Heff was chattering back with the remaining Trandoshan, ordering its surrender. The smaller creature made a pathetic sound, and Luke felt its pain and fear through the Force.

Jafan was leaning in toward Luke, holding a palm sized canister.

"You're familiar with how this is, Sir. Please hold still."

Where the ragged flesh had been torn, Jafan squeezed the canister and a blast of foam covered the gaping wounds, bubbling for a moment, then congealing over the open areas. Luke bit his lip and inhaled, gasping in a quiet scream. This was a field bacta spray, and would serve to cauterize the wounds and to begin strengthening his body's healing process. But it was military grade. This meant there was none of the typical narcotic ingredient in civilian bacta which would numb his pain. So there was a torturous, searing bite as the solution did its work.

Luke closed his eyes, let the pain wash over him, exhaled, and then opened them. He looked at his torn shirt and jerkin.

"I hope you know a good tailor among the Voss, Jafan."

Jafan chortled behind the helmet that betrayed no emotion. "I might, Sir."

They looked over to where Heff, the clever Chiss, was talking to the small Trandoshan. Desek, casting a wide shadow with his massive frame, leaned in, fiercely, then looked back at the Centopt.

"Should I put it out of pain? Kill it, Sirs?"

Luke waved his hand to indicate the negative. He pulled his ragged shirt and torn jerkin over his wounded chest, which was now feeling the bite of the air.

"What is he telling you, Corporal Heff? Can you communicate?"

"Bounty hunters, Commander. So he says. They were here because they were told there was a Jedi. I'm afraid the Hutts put a price on your head, Sir."

Luke looked down at the pitiful creature. He was smaller than Luke, which seemed unusual for a Trandoshan.

"Is he a youngling? He appears not to be fully grown."

Heff nodded. "He is young. Those were his parents. That is his father over there with the rifle. His mother," Heff motioned with his head, "is the one who fought you with the electrostaff."

An orphan. Luke felt a twinge.

"Don't kill him. He's my prisoner, now."

::: | ::: | :::

Tylo looked up from where she had fallen. The members of the marketplace had gathered around her, looking stunned. Two Ithorian traders were leaning over and making soothing noises in their musical language, helping her to her feet. She had been brokering a contract with a Vossik landlord for renting out cargo storage for the Ithorian traders when she had been overcome. The Ithorians were perplexed and compassionate. The Voss had stepped back in fright, however, knowing the seriousness of a mystic falling into a trance was not to be interfered with.

Helped her to her feet, she looked around, seeing Qyr quiet and panicked at witnessing his mother collapse like that. She smiled, and drew him in, holding a hand on his head of curly hair, reassuringly.

"It's all right." She spoke softly to her son, then repeated it louder to the clients. The Ithorians looked at one another, chittering quizzically. Was this some ploy to use a mystic's theatrics to negotiate a better rate? The Voss landlords were more worried, however, that this bode some ill will to their transaction, or worse.

Through the _Waskaja_ she had seen her husband, Jafan. He was in a fight, rolling on the ground, and firing his weapon to save his life. She knew he was safe now, and un-injured. But she felt a great pain through the link to the _Waskaja_ of silenced voices now dead. Processing this, she smiled and opened her palms in a gesture of calm.

"A disturbance. Far away from us. Nothing to do with us. Let us continue the transaction."

Qyr, alone, held tight against his mother's robe; he could see in the distance a man with cropped hair and a cloak of Imperial weaving, walking amidst the stalls, heading with a purpose out of the saloons and public houses. He recognized the tall man as Kale, one of the stormtroopers who once was under his father, but he was not dressed as a stormtrooper. What was he doing, the boy wondered? He knew he'd ask his father later.


	6. Chapter 06

Jafan, Centopt of the stormtrooper garrison, sat alone in a folding camp chair. His helmet was removed, and he wore a red Imperial scarf around his neck, buffeting the mountain chill, and otherwise breathing in the bracing air of the cold season. The dawn was saying farewell to the two moons and greeting the sun, a sight he'd grown used to this past decade. His old bones were shaken, but he was awake and alive, having survived another battle.

Now he sat with a data pad, looking over his after-action report. He wondered: did it matter anymore? The Empire had been shattered, and the small remnants of the garrison were little more than a personal guard for Vader's son. Were they Rebels, now, that they had fought alongside him? Or were they maybe just privateers, like a Hutt entourage of men of fortune? He chuckled; no — mercenaries and bounty hunters were better paid than a garrison salary.

He sipped the brackish crud in his metal cup. It was a standard Imperial beverage that came in canisters labeled, with typical unimaginative efficiency of the Imperial Navy, as _Breakfast Beverage_. The troopers just called it "crud." It was made from a cooked bean extract, but it was a mild stimulant, and it washed down dry flaky algal food packs well enough. To an old timer like himself, Jafan thought — was it 20 years in the shell already? — he was used to it, and rather liked it.

There was a pleasant light that fell across the Vossik plain on mornings like this. It was what an old trooper like him wanted right now. Death and pain had yet to be introduced to the world, and he could be looking as a visitor from an adjacent room, watching his memories like a holovid. The mixture of blood and adrenaline, spiked with fear, wears off and leaves the hollow, amniotic sac more dull than when it began. Each call to violence diminishes the body just a little more each time.

Only yesterday he was in a real firefight. He and Heff and Desek had approached and overwhelmed the bounty hunters with well rehearsed infantry tactics. It did pass his mind before that he may never yet use such skills again in his lifetime, having long been stuck in a sleepy garrison that no one would have dared attack when the Empire was in full force. But the end of the old regime and arrival of the Jedi had changed everything. Once again, Jafan was back in the fray of battle. Two Trandoshan bounty hunters were dead and buried in the mountains. One of them by a volley of blaster shots, and the other was slain by the Jedi.

The Trandoshans were a family; a mother and father and their youngling. Jafan could hardly wrap his mind around bounty hunting as a family outing. But then again, the Trandoshans were born hunters. Soft-skinned humanoids like himself had to be drilled into developing the instincts of organized battle. To the Trandoshans, any effort needed to learn to kill was completely absent from that species. They simply killed as easily as one might stoop to drink water when thirsty. Soft skins, in their distant primeval past, had an evolutionary moment when they learned to leave behind grasshoppers and berries and become hunting carnivores. The Trandoshans had never been anything else.

The young one had made sounds like crying, but it had just been the pain and shock of the blaster shot in his side. Heff, the Chiss lance corporal was conversant with a language pattern of the Trandoshans, and he interpreted for the captive. They had heard the rumors of the Jedi and the price on his head put up by the Hutts and the Mandalorians, both, and they were seeking their fortune. The young one didn't seem bothered to lose his parents, either. For them, dying in battle is a dignified death with religious significance, and he was honored, if only disappointed, that his mother and father both fought to the bitter end, nearly dispatching a Jedi.

The troopers had packed the bodies on the back of one of the tauntauns, and she had yelped at the smell of death on her back. The Jedi was wounded, and rode a second mount, as the young Trandoshan walked to the rear with his hands tied. Skywalker had been particular in wanting to spare the bounty hunter youngling. He was a prisoner now, and was told he was not to be a slave, but was bound to the house of Skywalker by a life debt. The reptilian seemed to understand and readily accept this.

Jafan chuckled to think of it as he sipped the crud. Such dainty formalities felt out of place to him. In the Empire, enemies were incinerated, heretics were burned, and slaves were useful only as fodder to be worked to death. Machines and droids did the heavy work, and any being that wasn't useful was irrelevant. How funny the Jedi were with their rules of combat and matters of honor and life debts. Civilization had been said to progress under the Empire. So at least the official holovids never tired of telling them. Jafan reflected that the modern ways were much crueler than the old ways.

The more ominous development now was to consider what exactly the ambush meant for the vulnerability of their situation on Voss. Clearly, the word was out about the Jedi, and there would be more hunters coming for his head. He couldn't stay here without significantly increasing the size of the garrison. And if he did evacuate? Well, that might be it, then, for the garrison. The end of a career as a stormtrooper, mustered out of the Trooper Corps now that the Empire was no longer what it was.

He could stay here, on Voss, with Tylo and his family. Maybe nerff herding or legume farming wasn't so bad. No more hard shells, no more barracks or algal rations. No more fighting for your life at every turn. He never thought he'd live to be anything but a stormtrooper, but now there were possibilities blooming in his mind.

He tossed out the gritty contents at the bottom of the cup and stood up to go inside. He'd finish the report after his morning duties.

The barracks were still mostly deserted now. The remaining garrison had spread out, making use of the available space when the rest had evacuated from Voss. There once were more than 200 troopers with their officers, and now they were 30, and only three engineers. They had TIE fighters in dock, Scout Walkers still in mothballs, but no pilots for either. Jafan walked through the plasteel plank hallway between the latrine and the sleeping berths. There was a closed off room with laundry machines to the side. He almost didn't pay any mind, but he heard a rattling and a thumping from the inside. At first he thought it was a machine that had gone unbalanced, but then he heard audible gasps, like someone being wrestled to the ground.

He had his duty sidearm drawn and held it with both hands as he crouched and jutted open the door with his left shoulder. He had no idea what he'd find, but he didn't expect to find two stormtroopers wrestling, or, not wrestling, but…

He turned his back immediately, wishing he hadn't seen it. He made his way into the barracks, sheathing his pistol, his mind desperately running through the scenarios he had wished he had seen instead. After a few moments, Rikka came walking behind, pulling up his black overskin suit over his shoulders.

"Sir, wait… I … I don't know what you think you saw…"

Jafan was now in front of the pocket door for his office. The door hissed and opened to receive him. He mindlessly entered and sat at the desk console. He turned and looked at Rikka, who had followed him in without quite meeting his face. The non-com paused, speechless for the moment and exhaled, but the young man was in a hurry to talk.

"Balia and I were… uh… look, uh… it's not what it looks like! I mean.. I mean… nobody knows what species he is, right? Everyone says that we don't know Balia is, like…"

Jafan held up a hand at this point. "Maybe I don't need to know this, Rikka."

"Ye-yes, Sir, but…" the young man was stuttering. Jafan calmly responded, relieving the frightened young man of unloading his explanation right away.

"You know the regulations for unlawful sexual activity among the troop. I am not in a hurry to enforce that regulation, if that is what worries you, Private. "

Jafan paused. He said nothing and attempted to meet the eyes of the younger man, whose eyes were still cast downward. He realized the young man was spinning with terror.

"I have a lot on my mind right now, and I'm aware that the CO isn't around for me to file a report even if I wanted to."

Rikka was still mortified, instinctively trying to back himself out in an explanation.

"B-but, sir, it was, you see, uh, Balia is from a species that is humanoid, but they have breeding queens, and he is… uh, technically, you see, he appears like a humanoid male, but he's… uh… actually a female drone! So, uh, she is female in her appendages, so it's…"

Jafan held up a hand again, holding the other to his forehead and sighed. "Look, while that may be very interesting, I'm not an anthropologist. The regulations include same-sex relations as well as differing sexes. There are rules against inter-species fraternization as well."

These were rules of course, well overlooked by a garrison that had plenty of civilian Vossik wives and companions among the troop. Jafan paused and now looked at the younger man straight on, catching his eyes to relay the seriousness of what he was saying.

"I'll tell you right now that I am not going to make it my concern."

Rikka nodded slowly, swallowing hard. Years of discipline had stricken him with fear, making him instinctively plead mercy for his case. Jafan looked compassionate now.

"So, Balia's actually female? Have we been insulting her all this time by assuming she was male?"

Rikka looked downward. The bulky young man was turning slightly reddish in his complexion.

"Well, uh, Sir, Balia's species, well, the majority are female drones, including the warriors, and, uh, he… uhh… he can tell you himself, like, as he sees he feels more like what humans would call 'male' in his identity, just that it so happens he has female sexual organs, like…"

Jafan now interrupted again. "Okay, _still_ you have told me more than I need to know."

Exhaling, Jafan's head was swimming, and he didn't want to ponder or care where a technically-female drone fit on the Imperial personnel data categorization.

"And one last thing before you're dismissed, Rikka. Those regulations exist mainly for morale. There is a danger with troopers who have favoritism or affection, or falling out with one another. I'll tell you that I'll stay out of this. But do me a favor and promise me that this won't be trouble that I will have to care about?"

Rikka nodded. He was quiet for a moment. In the silence, Jafan raised a salute that Rikka quickly matched. The older man dropped it and looked back at his data pad. "Dismissed, Private. Carry on."

As the young man turned, Jafan contemplated this. Rikka the wrestler. Balia, one of the best troopers in the squad, even though he was from a species none of them had heard of. The conformity the Empire demanded to be knotted so tightly came unraveled so effortlessly with the first tug of freedom. It wasn't a surprise to Jafan, though. The galaxy was vast, more so it seemed the older he got, viewing backward at the distances he'd traveled. The order imposed on the natural world, like the aesthetics of mathematically configured plasteel curves, and the lines of the prefabricated barracks he was sitting within, could not be more different from the chaotic random assortment of rocks and suns and the sheer anarchy of life which only now and then proliferated as barely perceptible specks within the yawning darkness of the galaxy.

For the next hour, Jafan readied himself with busywork. The coils in his blaster were replaced; the plasma chambers were brushed. He reset the circulatory system in his black overskin, flushed out the foul waste pouch puck, and used a sonic buffer to clean and re-polish his armor. This was the natural way things were after a battle. Men, when left at a moment's peace after the high of combat, could drift for days, stunned, unless their discipline kicked in and they busied themselves. He chuckled, buffing away on the armor, blessing and cursing his Imperial training, pausing to speak to the datapad, narrating his after-action report.

:::|:::|:::

Jafan made his way through the corridor, his armor polished once again, wearing a garrison cap instead of a helm, coming to report to the Lord in the Keep. The blaster and bantha hide satchel were still at his side.

The shiny protocol droid announced his presence with his plummy tones. Jafan could see that progress had been made inside the massive room that served as the Jedi's personal quarters. All the storage doors were open, and the relics were being sorted in metal carts by other protocol droids. Apparently, part of the Jedi's initial cargo included crates of unassembled protocol droids. The gold one seemed worn and dented, clearly older. He could smell the fresh plastoid-coated wires and metal polish on the newer blue ones. Clearly, their purpose was in preparing the items to be moved.

Jafan hadn't seen Skywalker since they made their way back to the garrison the previous day. The young Jedi had been swiftly attended to by the medics and medical droids, and spent the night in a bacta tank in the garrison's infirmary. His wounded flesh was washed and healed by a bacta soup of engineered molecules and nano bio-droids. Jafan had spent a few hours in a bacta tank himself over the years. In his recollection, just a single hour in the tank felt like getting a good night's sleep. Jafan noted that he himself rarely had a good night of sleep anymore when away from his family.

He panned his head and could see that the vast room in front of the large windows was still mostly empty. Vader's pod was now in the corner of the room, leaving the polished, tiled floor stretching out beneath the wall of natural light. The view was still more splendid than ever, with the mountains in all directions, extending past the horizon.

The room itself was vast enough to be the entrance of a hanger. When this was a hunting lodge, this surely could have been the scene of elegant balls and grand feasts. Now, sitting alone and still, meditating on a mat on his knees, it was only the Jedi in the center of the room. Skywalker had on his gray cloak with the stitched black accents and patterns and was facing the far wall with the windows on his left. He also had one of the glittering, jeweled boxes he had called a 'holocron' resting in front of him. He spoke without turning around.

"Centopt Jafan. Please come in. Have a seat. Facing me, please."

He walked cautiously up to the young Jedi, noticing the stillness in his body as he meditated. Once he was close enough, he could see there was a second mat in front of Skywalker's. A hand extended from the cloak, gesturing for Jafan to sit there in front of him and the holocron. The stormtrooper shell felt clumsily unsuited to such contortions, but he was able to angle his limbs so as to lower himself down. He then managed the angles of the joint fittings to allow him to cross his legs, his hands resting on the thighs, in imitation of the Jedi's pose. The holocron sat between them.

Skywalker opened his eyes and looked at Jafan. Rather than looking as pained as one might expect after a battle and suffering a grievous wound, the Jedi looked serene and inexpressive. Jafan felt uncomfortable. He sensed now that the Jedi wasn't just looking at him, but somehow looking through him.

"I am grateful, Centopt. You acted to save my life yesterday. You slammed your tauntaun into mine and moved me out of the way. You knew those bounty hunters were nearby. You knew that there was immediate danger."

Skywalker paused slightly.

"The Force is strong with you, Jafan."

He nodded. Slowly. He swallowed hard, knowing that the Jedi was sensing things he'd never wanted to contemplate very deeply himself. Even though the overskin beneath the armor kept his body temperature at a perfect level, he felt himself sweating nervously. He maintained the cross legged sitting posture steadying himself. He answered the Jedi with a calm, quiet tone.

"My other eye, Sir. I have felt it my whole life. If it was the Force, I never would have been able to properly study its ways... Not in the Empire, of course. Not under the laws..."

"Kneel like this, Jafan, with your legs behind you, and sit up straight and hold your hands at your side. I want you to be in a ready pose for this." Skywalker sat up on his knees, resting back on his calves. Jafan clattered the armor as he grunted and reconfigured the armor joints to allow the pose. The Jedi gestured to the holocron between them.

"This holocron is very simple. The crystal does little more than refract light. But it is a concentrator for Force meditation. At least, that is as much as Threepio could translate from the markings. Please stare into it. The waves of light are soothing to the mind, putting you in the right condition to see into the Force."

The stormtrooper had been obedient, but he held a deep-seated trepidation about exploring the Force too closely.

"Sir… if I am not comfortable with this…?"

With a wave of his hand, Luke replied. "Jafan, I would understand the need to hide Force sensitivity from the Empire. If you're going to be my guard, it is necessary for me to know this. It's an order, Centopt."

He relented, feeling he had made the necessary protest. In fact, he was curious. He had never understand his ability to sense the minds of others, and if it meant he was truly Force sensitive, there was a longing in his mind to know the extent of it.

He stared into the crystalline sphere that hovered in the center of the box, visible through carved, ornate vents. There was a rhythmic pulsing of a cool, blue light dancing on the glassy edges, like a current swirling in a river. He very quickly found himself focused on the light. His heart beat slower as time passed. Then he surrendered to a sensation like falling, but yet gently held aloft like riding a kite. Everything in the periphery of his vision in the world turned gray, seemingly washed of color. He felt himself to be floating, illuminated against the gray, as was all that was living around him: Luke, the planet below, even the droids, were completely present in his sensations. He felt a wave of awareness coming over him. Like touch, hearing, or sight, this was another sense, one which he had only been aware of before, numbly, but now he felt it keenly vibrating through his sinew. He saw the bindings of the world as they were, in completion, both the seen and unseen. He gasped with the rush of it, now. His heartbeat steadily rose back up.

Luke was looking at him as well through the Force, concentrating with purpose. Jafan found it odd to hear his voice in his ear, as if he was surprised to be somehow still in the same room, in the same body as he was a moment ago.

"The Force is all around us. We are part of it. And we are within it. I needed you to enter this state, Jafan."

Speaking ominously, he continued: "I could sense the Force was strong within you when we first met, Jafan. But I also knew that you were raw, and had never studied it. And you were a soldier of the Empire. A soldier of Palpatine. You could have been a Force user, a trained assassin, and not even have been aware of it."

Jafan inhaled, feeling the rush of power, and now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. Skywalker was probing his mind.

"Palpatine was a Lord of the Sith, an ancient order of dark side Force users. He had used the mechanism of the Empire to feed the dark side, and he drew power from its corruption. Under his command, Jafan, you had come under the direction of the Dark Side."

The Dark Side. Jafan could see it now. Something opened up on the seams of the world, briefly, and he could see for a moment the things he'd prayed he never would again: the bodies of the Correllia rebellion, the gambler on Nar Shadaa with a metal eye who tried to stab him; the one he killed in self defense and fury when he was just a boy, after which he ran to the trooper recruitment center before the law could find him. There was an icy blackness, a rush of power that overcame him, sealing over him like an envelope, as all these things rushed into his mind at once. He felt tremendous fury within reach of his hands, and his fists felt red with hot potency of destruction. These sensations and revelations hammered down on him through the Force. The power of the Dark Side.

He screamed. The blackness overcame him, and he knew nothing.

Not aware of where he was, he found his eyes were opening. Focusing again, they began to slowly congeal light into form, and he saw he was still in the room. Had he been unconscious? He sat up in a start, his body straining against the stormtrooper armor restricting his movement. He had passed out, somehow, and was on his back. Luke was still in a meditative stance.

"Have… have I been out?" Jafan stammered, wiping a trail of his saliva from his own face. Without moving, Luke answered him.

"Only for a moment. I apologize for that, Jafan. You let yourself feel the Force, and I attacked you there. I forced a probe of your mind, and I unleashed the nature of the Dark Side to you. I had to know."

"Know…. know what?"

The experienced stormtrooper now felt some embarrassment at his complete unraveling, screaming, and losing control of his body. His face was hot. Fainting — him! He was mortified.

"A servant of the Empire and of the Emperor. You would have been a strong candidate for making use of the Dark Side. You came close to it, before, and you had been its servant, however unwillingly. But I know now that you are no longer."

Luke peered upward, now. Even kneeling on the mats, Jafan was a taller man than the Jedi. He could see exhaustion on the young Jedi's face. He had been meditating heavily with the Force.

"Please stand up now, Jafan. I have something to give you. Do you need a hand?"

Jafan snorted and pushed himself off the floor. He wasn't as nimble as when he was younger, but he was still a man of strength with more than a bit of pride. "I'm up, Commander." Jafan re-adjusted his cap back to his head and straightened himself out, although he still felt a bit dizzy, steadying himself now that he was upright.

Luke walked across the polished tiles, standing at the lockers on the door furthest toward the window. It was the one with the cylindrical metallic tubes.

"Lightsabers, Jafan. Jedi weapons. There is quite a collection here. I'm afraid many of them are from Jedi who fell to Vader. I can feel much of each Jedi's last thoughts when I touch them, and I have sensed where and how they ended up here. It's only a dim shadow of sensation; truly recording a Jedi's moment in the Force is the purpose of these holocrons. But I can still pick up the crumbs of memory faintly attached to them. I was taking some care looking for one which belonged to my old master, but I can't find it here. I suspect Vader had personal reasons for keeping it elsewhere. Maybe even closer to him."

He picked up one of the lightsabers off the hook and turned to look at the Centopt. He held the cylinder up before the stormtrooper.

The grip was more than half as long as Jafan's forearm. It was a mixture of smooth metal with knurled ridges for a hand to grasp on to. There was a slight fitting toward one end which served as a pommel, and a slight ridge at the other end serving as a guard before the opening. Three-quarters of the way up the handle, the metal separated where openings revealed a crystalline structure inside the shaft. Jafan held it out in front of him, looking over the craft work of what was an item built perhaps centuries in the past. He was speechless for a moment as he held it.

"Sir…"

"The poor soul who wielded that may have died in battle. Maybe to Vader himself. Maybe that was something taken from a tomb or a private collection. It still holds its secrets from me, anyway. It's an artifact with a tremendous history. You have the Force, Jafan, and you have resisted the Dark Side. If you wish to take this journey, then you only have to accept."

Jafan took the weapon and stepped backward from Luke. Turning toward the window, he found the switch on the handle, flicking it, and felt his body jolt slightly in terror as the plasma blade came alive out of the handle. There was a blinding, yellowish tint to the saber's blade. His ears were full of a hiss of burning air. The saber hummed with life as Jafan turned it with his wrist, the whiff of ozone and scalded dust invading his nostrils.

As a weapon, it was a marvel of craftsmanship and symmetry. The blade was elegant, perfectly balanced, and alluring with deadly subtlety. He had wondered all his life what it would be like to wield such an old style weapon, and he felt no small joy in turning the blade around, putting both hands on the grip and adjusting his pose, as the blade hummed and sizzled.

After a minute of turning the saber through the air, he paused, holding his arm out to extend the point of the blade away from himself. He flicked the switch again, sheathing the plasma blade again into the handle. He was calm in thoughts, feeling himself centered in the Force. He turned around and faced Luke once more.

"Master Jedi. It is an honor. But I am a soldier, already. A grunt who is no stranger to battle and the kick of a blaster."

He looked at the handle of the lightsaber. He wondered how different that would be to be such a warrior. Not a replaceable unit within a machine, undifferentiated from millions of others, but an individual warrior with autonomy and a moral code that comes from an inner knowledge, and not merely submission to duty. He felt pains, longing to know what such a life would be like. All too aware it was too late for him, it made his next words that much more definite as he formed them.

He took a breath.

"Maybe if I was a boy, things would be different. But the path of a Jedi is not mine to walk. I've been a different kind of warrior for much of my life. I'm not looking to be another."

Luke pressed his hands together and bowed slightly.

"As you wish, Jafan. You've earned that right. And I hold your warrior's skills in very high regard as they are."

Jafan held out his hand with the lightsaber, ready to hand it back. Luke gestured a denial.

"If you would like to, Jafan, I'd like you to hold on to it. I fear having too many lightsabers in one place. They could all be destroyed or stolen at once. And you have the Force with you, so I trust you with keeping it safe. Consider it a gift. Or a loan of a lifetime."

Jafan held it in both his hands, looking at it again.

"I thank you, Sir. It is a tremendous gift to receive an old weapon like this. I will keep it safe."

Luke smiled now, looking up, fully. He was instantly more casual.

"Tell me, then. You've had this sensitivity for a long time, but you've never developed it. Has it ever dawned on you to explore these senses? Find the limits? I've barely begun to explore the limits of the Force, myself."

Jafan was moving the lightsaber in his hand like a totem as he furrowed his brow. "Well, Sir…"

He looked up, corrected himself, and spoke directly to Luke.

"Young Master Jedi, you know well how the knowledge of the Force was officially suppressed. Such stirrings were discouraged as rebellious. I adhered to the code as I was taught. Even though I was not ignorant that such things as worship of the Force were once very common."

Luke nodded. Jafan's thoughts were clearer now. He put together threads he had only begun to connect in his mind.

"There is something that you should know about the Voss mystics, Master Jedi. There is Force sensitivity on this world, and it is the basis of their religion, though they do not know it as such. Through that religion — through my wife, who is a mystic — I have experienced a bond that can only be through the Force. If you wish to know what it was that drew Darth Vader here, you may wish to ask the mystics further what they understand the nature to be. I wonder, in fact, if it is very likely why he chose this world, and this castle, as his keep."

Luke started out the window as he contemplated the words. There was something which drew Vader here, he had figured. And he felt the stirrings now, sensing it, that whatever it was, it was still nearby. He nodded.

"Yes. I agree, Jafan. I think it's time for me to consult the mystics of the Voss."


	7. Chapter 07

Jeet Syllba, Mandalorian warrior, once in his prime a harbinger of death and fear to those who hoped to escape their fate, felt his armor strain at his sides. Squeezing his flesh against its constraints, he grunted with each breath as he shambled as stealthily as he could, stalking through the dense underbrush of Voss. Too many sweets, he thought to himself; too much ale and cantina time, reclining on couches, and bouncing a Twi'lek dancer or two. The Empire had been good to him; no real fights for some time, just collecting easy bounties of soft and pathetic traitors and tax dodgers. Chasing down smugglers for the Hutt cartels was a young man's game, and he had found easy credits in picking up the jobs from the sleepy bureaucrats on Coruscant. He cursed himself for it now. The Emperor was dead, as well as the prospect for easy bounties, and his retirement rested on procuring this one last, solid score.

He was no longer luxuriating in the glittering light of a city sunset, watching the traffic streaming across the sky. Instead, he was struggling to keep his balance in loose Voss mud, finding himself snagging on branches, making gasping noises like a youngling clambering on a female his first time. Thank the great god Kad Ha'rangir that had no clan could see him, so as to lose their respect for him now.

As ill-suited for it as he knew he was at this moment, this job was just too tempting to pass up. A Jedi bounty was not the kind of thing that comes up every day. And a prize like that would make your reputation forever. He'd retire in glory, and songs would praise his skill for generations to come. The clans would be coming for him, eager to put him up with full hospitality and hear him tell his tales.

But right now he was scouting the ridges opposite the imposing castle at the highest peak in the Vossik plain. The Voss natives in the village below were busying themselves with whatever such primitives get to; cleaning gourds and beans, pulling out nerff wool to make their tunics, and just living their lives close to the soil. Syllba watched them with a bit of disinterest and slight contempt. There are, in the galaxy, predators and prey, from every level, the masters taught. The old Mandalorian way was the way of the hunter. The alpha predator was at the end of great chain. Gathering food and wool was busywork for slaves and other lessers. By Syllba's reckoning, all those in the valley below owed him for their existence for his choosing not to slaughter them on a whim.

At that thought, his footing floundered in a pile of leaves, and his awkward bulk gave way under him. While he flailed his arms to steady himself, he found himself helplessly toppling backward. He cursed himself for letting his physical prowess get away from him like this. He was bulkier now than he was used to being, and living in low gravity environments had let him forget how poorly fit a proclivity toward leisure had left him. His panting echoed hollowly in his helmet as he raised himself up, putting hands on his knees and grunting. In his mind he began an inventory. He vowed he'd behave like a Death Watch youngling waiting to be patched in; strictly sparse algal meals near a level of fasting, intense resistance exercise, weapons practice drills every morning and night. He'd get back to the ship and start, he swore.

After this bounty, he could sit back and retire, growing as fat as he pleased.

::|:: ::|:: ::|::

Luke assumed a meditative trance in front of the vast windows of his father's castle, standing on the alternating shades of stone of what had once been an overlook terrace. In the ensuing eons, it had been enclosed with glass and plasteel, serving to offer up the grand view of the Voss mountains. It served as a grand ballroom back when the dwelling was a hunting lodge. Lately, it had been the keep and occasional home for Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith.

He felt the heat of the sun warming the chamber as the rays passed over him. His hands were pressed together, and he was motionless, reaching out and feeling the Force around him. Behind him were three pupils now. Stormtrooper Jafan stood in a similar meditative trance, wearing his loose, gray-with-red-piping Imperial fatigues, while his two Vossik children, Qyr and Panna stood beside him, imitating the Force trance as best they could.

Luke Skywalker, the last Jedi, now guided them in a slow meditative dance, moving with the Force around them, shadowing the sun's trajectory. In this trance, they felt the pull of the sun's energy like the pulse of a heartbeat, in tune with the Force. Luke enjoyed the sense that teaching these meditations would be their first step into a larger world. The last of the Jedi would become the first of their return.

"Pass on what you have learned." Yoda's last words echoed in his mind. A former stormtrooper and two half-Voss children, red and blue accents in patterns on their skin, were his pupils for now. Maybe they would not become Jedi, but it was a start. The children of a Force sensitive, and also of a Voss mystic, had a heritage that made them unique in the galaxy.

The holocrons that were hid away within this castle by Vader, most importantly, were the key to perpetuating the knowledge of the Force. The Empire had been nothing if not diligent in suppressing the religion, but if ever there was a return, these would be the most prized possessions in the galaxy.

Luke followed the poses taught by the great masters of the past as recorded in the holocrons. He moved his hands slowly, passing them in a circle, tracing contours of the Force against the flow of life through his own limbs, paralleling the direction of the crude viscous of his body. Jafan had brought his children for training in the Force to expose them to things which he never had been himself. For him, a Force sensitive raised in the Empire, where knowledge and practice of the way of the Force was forbidden, this was an exploration of something he had been denied.

Luke finished the long circular motion of the exercise. He returned to the forward facing stance with his hands together. He pushed them apart and shook them off.

"That's all for today." He turned and looked at his students, and gave a quick bow. Jafan was steady, straightening up and bowing slightly. The children fidgeted somewhat as they straightened up. They had not quite understood the explanation of these meditations and exercises, but they gave it their best effort. Luke could sense that the Force was strong in them. The boy was very young, just barely seven. The girl was older, and she had yet a particular affinity to the Force, even if she couldn't quite feel it yet. He addressed their father, the stormtrooper Centopt.

"How do you feel, Jafan?"

"I feel the Force, Master Jedi. More so every time. It's strange, reaching out like this. I can feel the pull of it, active, like the leash of a gundark. But it comes and goes from my hold, as well."

Luke nodded. He looked toward the children who were shuffling off now, talking to one another rapidly, their minds already elsewhere.

"I think they show a lot of promise. The Force ways were traditionally taught to the young."

The young Trandoshan, Drrsala, came in. He wore a white tunic over his reddish scales. He functioned as Luke's servant now, and wheeled in a tray with a stone pitcher of water and plasteel drinking cups. Drrsala grumbled slightly in his language and bowed in deference.

Luke paused and sipped as he peered at the valley through the windows, gesturing to Jafan and the younglings to help themselves as well.

"Go ahead and rejoin the garrison, Centopt. I believe we'll have some visitors to entertain."

::|:: ::|:: ::|::

Qyr liked to be around the garrison. The lessons by the mystic elders bored him during his daily routine, and he didn't like the chores of working the gardens or helping his mother carry goods to the market. The troopers were much more exciting to be around. They looked like they had much more fun, getting to run around in armor, carrying blasters and using the screens and comm-links that he never got to use down in the village. He and his sister Panna also liked tauntauns, and it was a thrill to see them when he visited, in hopes for getting a chance to take one for a ride. He day-dreamed that someday he could be a trooper, or maybe even a ranger, riding a tauntaun all day in the open plains, hunting his own food, and no mystics to lecture him on composure.

His father was Centopt, and had been for all the life he knew. He didn't understand his father, as he mostly seemed to be tired or grumpy whenever he was around, but he knew he'd had a hard life. All the troopers knew him and welcomed him, and he felt proud to see his father marching through the ranks, the orange badge on his shoulder denoting a rank that instantly gathered him an amount of respect from outsiders. His father was the exact opposite of a boring mystic in his mind, and it was a surprise to Qyr how much he now seemed to be interested in the human mystic. Almost every full human he ever met was a trooper, and the only ones who were not he had only seen in the market. He was only half-human himself, and he didn't know that the humans had mystics. The mysterious Master Skywalker, with a droid hand and sandy hair like his own, was talking to his father a lot, now. He liked the Jedi meditation better than the long lessons of the Voss mystics, especially given that he got to move and, more than just sit quietly, he could reach out and feel something solid out there beyond his grasp when he did the exercises.

He watched his father now, with his helmet back on his head, standing in front of his men. They looked serious as they stood together at attention. They were waiting on the Voss mystics coming up the side of the mountain in their flowing white robes.

Master Skywalker slightly stood apart from the garrison, donning his cloak with a grey and black pattern, holding his hands together in front of him, waiting the mystics. Stormtroopers stood on either side formally at attention, giving the Lord of the castle an honorary guard.

The mystics came walking up the path, their white robes pulled taught against their bodies, and many of them leaning on walking sticks to support their gait at this altitude. Reaching Skywalker, they bowed in unison with their hands crossing their chest. Qyr could not tell which was his mother, but he knew that she was there under the white robe, along with five other women and matched by an equal accounting of males. Tonda, in the lead, and the eldest Voss mystic, his reddish and blue skin tones now slack with his advanced age, still relied on leaning on his stick when they reached level ground, could bow only slightly. He spoke first in accented Basic.

"They say to address you as 'Commander Skywalker,' and not 'Lord', as Black Mask was." He bowed slightly, again. "It is an honor to be here, Commander Skywalker."

Luke bowed in return, meeting their gestures. "The honor is restored," he replied, citing an old Jedi formality.

"The castle belonged to your people for a long time, in the days of Voss-Ka and the Gormak wars. Long before my father was here. I am pleased you have returned here."

Master Tonda proceeded to introduce himself, as well as each of the dozen mystics behind him in succession. Qyr did not hear the various pleasantries as they bowed and greeted one another, making small talk and gestures of welcome. Skywalker stood straight with hands in front, nodding in turn. At last, the group turned, and he gestured to lead them into the castle.

Qyr watched the mystics line up and march into the great castle of shiny black stone, disappearing into the darkness of the curved entryway. He watched now as the troopers relaxed, shook themselves loose, and readjusted their helmets. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his father's helmet-less face standing over him. His father smiled, which was rare for him in Qyr's memory.

"We'll let the mystics discuss the matters now, Son. Your mother was among them. Maybe we'll all be together as a family after this. Where's your sister, by the way?"

"Oh, she went down by the tauntauns to feed them. She likes them."

"Okay, Son. Why don't you stay with me? I have some work to do at the base."

After walking a while, Qyr felt he could ask questions.

"Father? What are the Jedi? Are they like the Voss mystics for the humans?"

"They are, Youngling. But they were forbidden for a long time in the Empire."

"Are you a mystic now?"

Jafan laughed. "Maybe. I thought you might have enough of that in this family with your mother. Are you enjoying the Force training?"

"I guess so. It's not as boring as the mystic lessons."

Jafan nodded, keeping some thoughts to himself.

"There is a lot we all have to learn from Master Skywalker. The Force is out there, and yet it is in all of us, he says, but it may call to some of us more than others. If it's strong in you and Panna, I would hate to see it go to waste, as it has with me."

::|:: ::|:: ::|::

Walking along Skywalker's side in the great black stone hallway, Tonda struck up a conversation of mystic matters.

"Your ways of the 'Force' as you call it. We have investigated much in what you have proclaimed, and we have much to discuss with you, if it pleases you, Commander."

Luke remained stoic. But he couldn't help but warm up to the old man. He spoke with a musicality that had a humor within it.

"We bring you an official greeting from the Voss mystics, and a welcome to our world. Something we never had the chance to do with Black Mask. We bring songs and prophecies, Commander, from what was passed down about this place long ago."

Luke smiled beside his effort not to. He gestured to the great room which had been Darth Vader's personal quarters.

"We'll discuss it in time, Master Tonda. If you ladies and sirs would join me, I will receive you in the great hall. After your long walk, I'm sure you would care for some refreshment. I also am eager for the Voss to come in and reclaim this place that was built by your ancestors so long ago."

:::||:::

C-3PO had thrown every servo movement, optic feed, and cognition matrix routing into the process of efficiently lifting, examining, and recording the holocrons that Darth Vader had kept at the castle. His programming protested at first. Protocol and etiquette are primary functions, and sorting and lifting are for less elegant droids, all the methods and crystalline synapses whispered. But the command core in his core units rejected all this as errors, and piped through the primaries. _Translation, sorting, storage, and protection of the holocrons._

Master Luke had valued his functionality, and a droid's neural mesh could not be more free of errors and overruns than a master who was pleased. Master Luke had the three extra protocol droids, as C-3P0 had humbly suggested he needed in order to expedite his functions. After assembling them and powering them on, they were told by Master Luke to follow C-3P0's orders, and the golden droid was positively alight with his new parameters. The new droids were newer models, shiny off-silver with blue highlights. Newer droids always assumed they are more advanced than their older compatriots, but Threepio was was never one to tolerate upstart chirping. After they had finished professing their own advancements and upgrades, he quickly informed them of their primary mission to decode the holocrons, and after threatening to just copy his matrix over theirs and clone himself into them, they quietly shut down opposition and obeyed. He named them C-3PP, C-3PQ, and C-3PR, which he found appropriate for the sake of sequential symmetry, as he considered himself first in the array of hierarchy.

The droids had joined together and interfaced, exchanging the necessary data that Threepio had compiled to translate the holocron glyphs. After the initial conflict, the four protocol droids were inseparable, functioning as a unit, each taking turns in holding aloft the holocrons to one another, and all joining in and speculating on possible language algorithm interpretations of the various glyphs. They buzzed with congratulations for one other for each insight that was gained.

Threepio's core was returning messages of completion and enhancement in cooperative tasking, in what the makers might called "being pleased."

R2-D2 often rolled in between them, rarely making his usual querulous tones, but only beeping a warning when rolling past a protocol droid so it wouldn't back up into him, as he went about his repetitive chores, going from terminal to terminal, turning locks and replacing boards. Threepio chided him for being rude and unfriendly, as he hardly interacted at all as the protocol droids had become such close compatriots. But Artoo just bleated a non-committal blurb and continued on his business. Threepio calculated that it was just the nature of such astromech droids, really just little more than ambulatory tool boxes that would chirp away in their own (singular and rather low-level) language. The astromechs could be as dense and mindless as a hydro-spanner, or maybe like Artoo, more clever and just aware enough to play "dumb machine" when they chose to sulk. Threepio ran the permutations of Artoo's taciturn behavior of late, and the calculation returned " _typical for Artoo!"_ , and he closed the file.

Now, with the guests arriving in the castle's grand dining hall, Threepio was breaking from the archive functions, and getting a chance to fulfill his original role as translator, and was taking full measure in showing off his complete mastery of the subtleties and intricacies of the Vossik tongue. His newer droid companions worked at serving drinks and food. He stood by Master Luke, relaying the discussions of the mystics who were in audience, sitting at the table in the great hall with a view of the valley below.

:::||:::||:::

Luke had said little. With two hands together at the table, he listened to the mystics relate the ways of their people and practices, and how they pondered on the nature of the _Waskaja_ , what Threepio insistently said most closely what is meant in Basic as _The Force._

"Why this place? Why did my father choose this castle then, here on Voss?"

Tonda thought on this, and finished slowly chewing the Vossik radish in the plate in front of him.

"The ancients told of a path of lightness and darkness. The enlightenment and power raised them from primitive beasts of the Gormak to the enlightened people of the Voss today, back when Voss-Ka was a city of greatness. They taught that there was the way to enlightenment of compassion and generosity, and there was a way to power made by wrath and fear. Our people did not forbid all such ways to initiates, and for a time, our rulers would draw from one pool and then from another."

Luke pondered this. "Balance. As there was balance in the Force. A prophecy foretold that my father would bring balance. He must have sought this out. Perhaps the Force had called to him."

Another mystic broke in while speaking his own Voss language. Threepio leaned down and translated for Luke.

"It is true that this castle was long valued by Lords of this realm, and wealthy city dwellers from Voss-Ka had long made this place a destination for hunting parties and holidays. It is a valuable piece of property. Perhaps it was coincidence or luck that your Emperor had given this to Black Mask."

Luke smiled warmly, touching the wampa scar up on his face. "My first Jedi Master said that in his experience that there is no such thing as luck." Threepio turned and raised his hands as he theatrically relayed the reply.

The mystics at the table bowed their heads and touched their fingers together in what Luke assumed was a gesture of religious significance. They agreed with Ben.

Tylo, the wife of Jafan the Centopt of the stormtroopers, was further down the table. Luke noted that she spoke with impeccably perfect Basic.

"Luke Skywalker, we spoke of the visions we have had. The rituals that Master Tonda spoke of, the rituals to channel the _Waskaja_ of the dark way and the light way. So you must see, those rituals long ago were performed on this site. When it was the keep of a great lord, he gathered relics here, and was a host to many mystics. If those relics served some purpose, they may be buried deep here in the castle, and they may be potent still, as totems that focus the _Waskaja_. If you can feel them as we do, you would know the danger they imply. They have always called to us like a song, quietly beckoning to us from the top of this mountain. They were louder when Black Mask was here. But they are even louder now."

Luke settled back in his chair, disturbed by the news. He felt foolish. He knew that there was much he had to learn in the ways of the Force. He had called out to it, and let it guide him, but he was only barely more than an initiate. There was still chaos in his mind when trying to reach out, and he hadn't seen what these mystics had. Or perhaps the Dark Side that had residence here knew how to hide from him.

He felt a chill. He had felt his father, Anakin Skywalker, through the Force many times. But he felt a twinge of something slight for only a moment as if it passed through him. It was pure Vader. He looked over the mystics and they kept still, contemplative faces. Perhaps they had an insight into the Force that he hadn't. Perhaps there was a vector, hidden here in the shadows, by which the Dark Side had found fertile ground.

Tylo spoke again.

"There is something else that you should know. We know that once our people knew of the Jedi. I believe some had joined their ranks. Both on the Light and the Dark Side, so it says in what is written."

Luke nodded. "So it would be. I suspect the insight your order has on light and dark would answer many questions on the nature of the Force. I've been searching for this insight. So much of our study of the Force has been last over time."

Tonda spoke with the tone of his age and position. "Commander Skywalker, lone Knight of the Jedi, we have spoken among one another. We have an offer to deliver. An offer for you to join our rituals, and to experience the immersion of _Waskaja._ Outsiders seldom have ever been asked. But we believe you may be a bridge for our worlds."

Luke understood. He paused and sipped at his glass of blue milk. This would be the next step to restore the Jedi, and he knew he would have to take it.


	8. Chapter 08

Drrsala was the name he was given on hatching. His scales were reddish, transitioning to green, which was a trait of his father's clan and considered handsome. Great things were expected of this one by the elders. Now, in his sixth year, he was the age in which a youngling would join the pod as a hunter. This was the way of the Trandoshans, living in thrall of the great eternal Huntress. His parents had taken him on his first hunt, collecting a bounty on a soft-skin. But it was the last hunt they would ever take.

Drrsala's long hunt, as they referred to a lifetime, had been short so far. He watched his parents both be struck down and join the Huntress. He was now the prisoner and slave of the soft-skins who had killed them.

The soft-skins were a weak race he had been told; smelly creatures with fur instead of scales, who eat sticks and berries, and move with a mammalian twitchiness. They were clever, though, and they could be dangerous. They had no claws. But they were smart, and built weapons as deadly as claws. And they covered their soft skins in hard shells as well. They could only imitate the Trandoshan perfection for hunting, but they were clever about it.

He'd lived among them for a month now, and they were indeed chatty and nervous, always moving like typical fur-covered beasts. Their constant motion and heated bodies stirred his predatory instincts. Their skins quivered in a way that provoked his salvation with the memory of chasing womp rats.

He felt dishonored to himself by how much he missed a good womp rat meal more than he missed his parents. His captors had fed him generously with their strange food made in glowing vats. It tasted something like meat. But it was blandly missing any hint of blood.

Still, he had not suffered. Although at least suffering would have been a challenge. He didn't understand why they had not tortured him as a captive. It frustrated him to think that his parents had broken through to the Huntress in joyous pain, but he was left not to suffer and fight, but only be bored.

They stumbled on the words to say "you are not slave!" But Drrsala couldn't understand the meaning of this. To the Trandosha, there is service and command, and this is all there is. He understood he was in debt to the Jedi for sparing his life, and for that he served willingly. One who serves is ranked below those those who command, but to serve a great hunter is itself a high honor. The Jedi was a great warrior. Especially if he was good enough to defeat a Trandoshan.

He was now overlooking the great valley from a warm rock, observing a wavering sea of orange-reddish savanna grass undulating with the wind. The valley was ringed by the mountains extending far in the distance. He had rested here for two days now. The Jedi had wandered the plains for much longer. Drrsala understood that the Jedi was on a long trek not unlike a hunt. It was something to do with the Jedi religion.

He followed the instructions Luke had given him. He had gathered supplies in a bag and climbed in one of the globular Imperial ships with two large panels on its sides. He piloted the craft and followed a pre-programmed course, gently floating across the plain to get to the rendezvous point. He filled the days ever since by wiping down the craft, checking its repulsor coils, and resting on the rock when daylight was at its zenith. There were insects in the high grass, and he entertained himself by stalking and hunting them. They were fine prey to supplement the boring rations from the soft-skins, but they still lacked the satisfaction of real blood. He made a game of it: trying to leap and grab them from further and more obscure angles. They had different textures and tastes, and he took care to remember the ones he liked most and seek them out.

As he was contemplating perhaps stalking something for a snack, he noticed shimmering light in the distance. The tall grass moved in a way that indicated an animal was walking there. He picked up and peered through a pair of macrobinoculars and could see now the Jedi and two Voss mystics were coming up the valley. The Jedi looked gaunt and tired, his military jerkin looked covered in dust, and the fur on his face had grown to a fine dander. The two mystics walking on either side of him kept plaintive expressions on their gleaming, multi-colored faces. Drrsala stirred his warmed blood to focus on starting his next tasks and crawled down from the rock. He placed out a folding plasteel table, a container of water, and a case of food sticks. He proceeded to set out a complement of tools and clothing from the Jedi's compartments. All as he had been directed to do.

It didn't take long for Luke to make his way up the valley toward the landing area, shaking the dust from his clothes and nodding in acknowledgment to Drrsala that he had done well. The Trandoshan bowed in respect to his master. Luke picked up the water first and drank with a relish. He offered it to the Voss as well, but they seem mostly uninterested.

Their voices were like other mammals, but they had a slight buzzing tonality. "We are well, Skywalker. This land nourishes us as its children." Luke seemed fatigued at their speaking. "Suit yourselves" he muttered. He stripped off his clothes, exposing his flesh to the warmth of the sun. He picked up a sonic cleanser, and passed it over himself. The hand-held device buzzed as it pushed a thick wall of ion-charged air over his skin.

Drrsala noted that the hygiene of these creatures was very much in the manner of all warmbloods. Unlike regular grooming and shedding of one's scales, these creatures regularly washed their bodies with either liquids or sonic devices that wiped and cleaned off the accumulation of dirt and excretions on their skins. They were still strange to him, but somehow civilized for having the shortcomings of furry beings.

:: | ::: | :::

After a minute of waving the ion shower over his body, Luke's expression relaxed. He dressed himself in a fresh khaki and green uniform. He chewed on a food stick and turned to the mystics. One of the Voss spoke first in accented Basic, with the buzzing accent of their language.

"Master Jedi, we have been pleased to take you into this voyage into the ancient holy lands."

Luke nodded. "The honor is restored."

"You are strong with the _Waskaja._ What you call 'The Force.' You are beyond a mere adept. We have been pleased to commune with you these past few days."

Luke bowed again. He had taken in much of Voss folklore and ways of living. His brain was tired. Ten days of traveling with the mystics and meditating on the mountaintops, eating and drinking very little, while his body was pushed to the limits had driven him far into the Force. This was an accelerated version of what mystic adepts in Voss culture would undergo. Normally, this was the tail end of a process of indoctrination in the Force which lasted for more than ten years. For this Jedi, they had brought him up to speed as best as they could. They knew that he had already earned his own gateway to the world beyond, tested against the Dark Side. They had been curious to observe his power in the Force as well.

He had gained much insight into the long history of Voss culture in those recent days, at least. Far from the heart of the Empire, the Voss mystic traditions had skirted the bans on Force indoctrination throughout the galaxy. Their ancient contacts with the Jedi and Sith during the Golden Age still lived on in the quiet backwater rural Voss had become. Luke had heard far more Vossik legends in the last few days than he would ever retain. He mused there were only a few he may remember fully even a week from now.

Luke knew that his time on Voss would be limited. Vader's Keep was in a precarious position that would not remain safe for much longer. Not with the galaxy coming to scavenge its holdings. Especially after Jafan had informed him that former Imperials had been reportedly seen skulking around the trade settlement.

Luke had never fully understood how Ben was able to communicate after his death. But now he understood more from the Voss how those who are one with the Force can be anchored to those who are left behind. The dead do not walk among the living, the mystic had said, but that we the living meet them halfway in the world of the _Waskaja._ The Voss had a powerful heritage of contemplating these things for quite some time.

Luke himself now also contemplated how much insight he had gained into the physical differences between the Voss and humans in the last several days. They were well suited to this land, and they considered themselves to be its offspring. They broke certain mountain reeds which grew in the streams and chewed them. These seemed to provide most of their needs for food and drink, supplemented by eating the raw insects that flitted about in the reeds. Not one to question the insight of Force masters as when he was much younger and more impetuous, he willingly went along. He admitted to himself that no matter how deep in the Force he was, eating insects was repulsive. But he managed it well enough. The reeds were also bland to his taste, and constantly left his stomach feeling unsettled.

Life on a military base was one of minimal luxury. But he couldn't stop thinking now of how much he desired a military cot and a plate of fresh algal whipped up into a pleasing texture — spiced, salted, and steaming hot. In his mind, he longed for these spartan comforts more than a louche, hedonistic Hutt might long for a hot pool and a feast of gwerp frogs.

Pulled temporarily out of the heavy matters of considering the souls of the dead Jedi and Sith, he also eyed the TIE fighter that Drrsala had brought. He had waited until the time was right to take one from the garrison out for a flight. Something didn't sit right with him that he was fully inheriting Vader's Keep here. If the Jedi order was to return, Luke Skywalker would want to avoid the mantle of Vader. He hoped to honor the good that once was Anakin Skywalker. He certainly didn't want to give out any impression that he was using the garrison equipment as his own possessions. But he was greedily looking forward to piloting a TIE fighter for real.

After waving final farewell to the mystics, Luke worked with Drrsala to pack up the rest of the belongings back into the fighter. He'd had Threepio work with the young servant, teaching him as many Basic phrases and words as might be useful. The Trandoshan found it extremely difficult to pronounce foreign words with his reptilian mouth, and the droid was noisily frustrated with the task. Drrsala now made non-committal sounds as Luke directed the youngling. He wondered if the Trandoshan would be a useful ally in the long run. He supposed he'd just let him go at some point if Drrsala wished it. Until then, he hoped to let the youngling know that the new order of the galaxy, if Luke had any say, would have no part of slavery and cruelty as a matter of law.

"Are you ready to fly?" Luke asked, not sure even if he had been understood. Drrsala nodded and made a hissing noise. Luke pulled an orange flight suit over his fiberweave fatigues. He strapped down the helmet over his head, twisting the torque straps into place. So equipped, he leapt up and lowered himself into the cockpit. Drrsala climbed in after him, uncomfortably locking himself into the gunner's perch just behind Luke, which had not been designed to fit a scaly Trandoshan's frame.

They were brilliantly built craft, Luke had observed. Their twin-ion engines were highly efficient, and their fusion charge could enable a TIE fighter to operate for weeks at a time in zero-gravity environment. The ionic propulsion that emitted from different angles on the waffled panels allowed for equal movement in all directions in zero gravity.

When modified like this one was to operate within an atmosphere, several compromises were made. The TIE fighter's form was designed for space, and had no aerodynamic qualities of its own. When operating in an atmosphere, the fusion coil's amperage was increased, and the shield projectors were inverted. This provided a small gravity well, essentially allowing the craft to float in a bubble that pushed out against the atmosphere and the planet's g-forces. This was similar to the relatively tiny cores in landcraft like speeder-bikes, but at at a much greater electron displacement to account for flight and actively counteracting gravitational friction. For a drifting path like the pre-recorded flight carrying Drrsala slowly and sleepily over the mountains, the energy expended was fairly modest. Luke had no desire for such modest efficiency right now, though. He wanted to punch down the acceleration, pulling maximum thrust from the plasma core, and push the TIE to its limits.

The X-wings and many of the other ships the Alliance relied on were much simpler, and more inherently multi-purpose than the TIEs. They did not have nearly as intricate of a design, and they cost far less to produce. Whereas the TIE relied mainly on shielding, ionic panels, and reverse gravity wells, the X-wings relied much more on armoring, speed, adrenaline, and the modular astromech droids. Their shielding and ionic pulses were many generations behind Imperial technology, and thus were much easier to work on and return to the field by the Rebellion and its scarce resources.

The TIEs were not designed for standalone squadrons with limited ability to make repairs that depended on astromech droids; they were hive beasts. They were parts of a high-tech military infrastructure tied to carriers and a vast crew of engineers to service them. Their intricate complexity was a vulnerability, then, when they were removed from the fleet. They required the constant activity of the highly disciplined, and specifically trained Imperial technicians, to continue operating at peak performance.

From farm T-hoppers, to Correllian freighters, to the no-nonsense X-wings, Luke had piloted a great many can-do utility vehicles that were blunt, lumbering vehicles compared to a delicate piece of high-tech like a TIE. He was no stranger to vehicles with rattling seals, mis-colored replacement panels, and the need to spend time leaning into their crevices with a hydro-spanner. Piloting a clean, precise machine like this was a joy. He felt like a wealthy lord out for a pleasure cruise.

As he flipped on the gravity inversion coils, the ship lights warmed up, and the whining sound of motivational capacitors charging echoed into his helmet. Luke felt his stomach and head swell in the unsettling g-force press that was forming. Every piece was harmoniously functioning as designed to eagerly buoy the craft upward.

"Here we go" he announced to Drrsala, who made a noncommittal grunt behind him. They were about to see just what the very best of Imperial technology could do. Luke pulled hard on the throttle, and the TIE went from a gentle float to a contained explosion bursting up into the clouds. He was surprised at the incredible responsiveness of the controls, giving tactile feedback in both hands. Almost instantly, a wave of nausea swept over him, as he fell into the sky. The ability to absorb extreme g-forces was a necessity for a serious pilot. However, the gravity inversion resulted in a different, dizzying effect than simply being thrust backward by straight g-forces. Even as he was propelling forward faster than atmospheric sound, the result of the gravity inversion was a sensation of falling forward into the direction the craft was moving, with his insides seemingly aching to expand, rather than being crushed. At these speeds, without the pressurization and gravity well, any singular fleshy being fighting on its own against planetary gravity would be crushed into unconsciousness and likely suffocation and death. Without the shield pushing out, the metal of the TIE would be shattered by the air resistance. Within the cocoon of the craft with all systems functioning, however, his body only sensed as much discomfort as a swift descent in an air hopper in glide mode, which was slightly disorienting, but not debilitating.

He could see the bursting plumes of vapor whirling around the craft as they parted the clouds explosively. He overlooked the swiftly expanding, miniaturizing landscape of Voss. In less than two minutes, the TIE was up against the edge of space, and the ship made a whining sound again in descending tones as the atmospheric friction dwindled against the repulsorlift bubble. The vapor cloak receded as the TIE pulled away from the lower Voss atmosphere. In the distance, the bright reddish glow of the planet's coronal halo was visible at the curving horizon.

Luke banked the craft with the dual-stick controls and piloted between the endless depth of darkness above him and the clouds at his feet. He was circling the continent where the keep was. He could only make out the occasional mountain or body of water below him. He took a breath as his lungs finally relaxed. His meal of protein sticks and water no longer threatened to make a reappearance.

"There's the planet from above, Drrsala. I never tire of this kind of view." The Trandoshan had been quiet, but made a few noises staring out at the sight. Perhaps he was eager to be a pilot as well. Luke knew he was no stranger to flight, as he made no effort to complain in the slightest as they were rocked to and fro during their ascent.

Their arc continued for a few blessed, contemplative minutes, as Luke edged the craft back down into the atmosphere. He could see the vapor clouds converging and being pushed aside by the presently winding-up, recharging gravity shield. The land below him began to take form. He held the dual stick controls, transmitting the flight path's directional arc in precise feedback, and he felt properly in control of his momentum. He had been content in the past few weeks to trust the Force, and was used to letting it guide him. It was unusual, these days, to have a moment where he chose his own course once again after having been buffered by events so often.

Piloting a ship was when he was at his most calm and felt most complete. At the moment, he was no longer tired, no longer overwhelmed with desire for real food and sleep. He was no longer casting his fate to what destiny had in store for him. His mind was on his flight path, feeling his own choices, and the feedback from the craft in which he was cradled, his spare glances only on the directional sensors in the holographic HUD around him. He felt as though he was made of light itself, passing over the plains below, and leaving behind the concerns of crude matter.

His mind now freshly went to the stories the mystics told of ancient Voss. They had chanted stories while they chewed the reeds and meditated in front of the fires in the darkness at night. For long hours, Luke had listened to their quiet chanting, finding himself lost in a dreamlike state. He watched the moons glowing in the darkness, met by the burning embers of the fire climbing up into the Vossik night. He had relaxed his body and opened his mind to the Force. This was how they had told him a mystic must let himself go; he must leave behind the trappings of the busy outside world, no longer trapped in the singular distinction between where the ground and the moons were in space and time, but contemplate the nature of the Force which transcended both, and was not restrained by such dimensions.

After the third day of repeated meditation, Luke was stronger. He found himself entering a Force trance even while still nearly in a waking state. It was there that he once again saw Anakin Skywalker. His visage was paler, still distant from Luke in the darkness. There were limits to what a living soul like Luke might yet glean from communing with one within the Force. Anakin's face was concerned, and seemed to be leaning forward, as though he were reaching out. Luke had leaned in through the trance, but he found his father could not quite be reached. Just faintly, above his face was the gossamer outline of the grill of Vader's mask. Anakin seemed to want to mouth something, but his essence was chilled by the strength of the Dark Side that was still evanescent around him; a darkness that had a solid footing here in Voss. Anakin nodded his head with a serious expression before dissolving back into the darkness.

Anakin and Ben could only guide him so much from beyond. And Luke's destiny was his own to discover. Paths to be found and lessons to learn were his alone to endure.

Luke learned that the Voss were influenced by visitors of the Jedi religion in ancient times. There were those who visited as well who were followers of the Dark Side. The planet was thick with history planted deep in a ground littered with half-buried stone relief carvings, temples, and sacred places that were all strong with the Force. On their walkabout, the mystics took Luke through these places, and they camped on these ruins, looking over the remnants of what came before.

These relics were long overgrown with vines. They were colored with a patina of ashes from those long-departed generations. What were once temples on which mystics communed with the Force, and entertained the Jedi, the rocks were cold and discarded; quiet in their senescence. What were once carved plinths for long-looted statues and stone plates with chiseled relief telling the stories of the Voss, were now mere perches for nexu stretching themselves and occasionally straining to sniff the air to hunt their next meal.

The mystics regularly transversed these landscapes in their pilgrimage, practically indifferent to their desiccation. They were merely corridors through a storied past; just another place in space and time, which was not important to them. The Voss were content to let the old temples lie fallow and untouched, letting the ancients sleep. The legends were alive in them, the mystics and storytellers, not the rocks. Their power was in the _Waskaja_ , as were their holy duties.

They spent much time meditating on the old rocks, and Luke was dimly aware of the shades from the old columns gradually falling across his body as the hours went by, and the light of day transformed into the moons of the night.

Turning the craft in a vast arc, Luke could see the keep come into view with the garrison below. The TIE's comm-link was encrypted with the code frequency that would allow it to pass through the shield over the castle. Luke took his time, observing the great structure from the angles afforded him by the craft's bubble cockpit. The castle's spires went straight up, far above the rooms where Vader had spent his time. As Luke circled, he contemplated the significance of those spires. Why were they so high? There were four of them, in fact, at equal points around the castle, much higher than any other part of the structure. The highest turrets were far enough from the ground that they would not do much good as defensive battlements during ancient times.

He noted how the black volcanic rock reflected light shimmering across its glassy surface. The obsidian was a hard substance, its crystalline form baked by volcanic eruptions in the planet's youthful perturbations. Luke noted for the first time that the spires and the entire substance of the keep seemed to have a shape that was reaching upward. A chill went through him as he considered this.

Khyber crystals were notable for producing vibrations in rhythm with the Force. There may have been something more than first appeared to this castle's very structure, made as it was with volcanic rocks thick with crystalline veins running throughout the entire structure. The black obsidian blocks that had been cobbled together to construct it were not just an obscure building technique. There was maybe a greater purpose. If a single crystal can channel the Force as felt by a Force user, then the whole structure of the Keep itself seemed to be a solid crystalline glass structure, of immense density, and incredible height. He contemplated that as dense as obsidian of this nature would be, it is still a brittle rock, not nearly so suited for battlements. But maybe, Luke pondered, this castle was never meant to be impregnable. Maybe it was never meant to be a defensive position at all.

He had learned how the mystics had held rituals at high points in the mountains, reaching higher above them to better sense the Force. The keep was maybe not designed as a fortress, but as a giant conduit. It was an antenna for the Force.

Vader could have channeled the Force from there. And he could have sought communion with the powers that the Voss had buried there so long ago. The keep could have been a device to reach out. But to reach out from what? What could the keep itself have magnified from below that so intrigued a Dark Lord of the Sith?

Luke felt a shivering chill trickle across the scars on his back. He knew he'd next have to find out just what it was.


	9. Chapter 09

Former stormtroopers all, the Marauder legion considered themselves now bound to no man and swore no oath but to one another. After decades of Imperial directives, they now found themselves free. And poor. They had surplus weapons and Imperial equipment, though. And a lifetime of training in the art of killing. Here at the far end of the galaxy, their skills were for hire. Now they were taking time to sharpen them.

Their speeder bikes cut slices in the air over the dimly visible trails. This was the region of Voss of what were once known as the Nightmare Lands. In ancient times, this was an area rich in the lore of the mystics and the stories of the wars with the competing races of Voss. Superstition kept these lands free of native eyes. This made them the perfect training and staging ground for the Marauders.

Three speeders tore through over a worn path at a blur. Each had two riders. The mounts left ripples of dust exploding through the air as their repulsorlifts bullied aside gravity and propelled them forward like bowcast bolts. The pilots leaned hard to their left sides as they pushed into the wide turn around their targets. Behind each rider, a single gunner sat back, taking aim against the targets with hand-held arms. They rained plasma bolts on randomly placed holo targets in the center of the arc, laid out much as huts would be laid out in a typical Vossik village.

They made several laps this way around the target area without bothering to count. After a morning of runs, and the vegetation in the center area mostly burned down, a single figure at the edge of the target range waved to them with a red Imperial flag. The speeder pilots straightened up their course and came in. The bikes wound down now, shuddering as gravity once again brought them to a stop, steaming furiously from the air friction they had generated on their run. Intan, former stormtrooper sergeant in his well-worn armor, held the flag, and stood to greet them.

The bikes were Imperial issue, but they had been customized by the Marauders to fit their new, independent status. Pinstriping in varying greens and reds had been added to the sides. One of the bikes was decorated with an Ewok skull at the forefront of the frame. The Marauders were from the regiment long forgotten by a flailing Empire on the far side of an Endor moon. Left to fend for themselves, they had spent the last years of the war cut off from Imperial directives, and it was only too late that they were informed of the final fall. By then, they had managed to turn their minds to a future of privatized endeavors.

Intan lifted his helmet. His braided beard twisted in the breeze. His face was frozen in a scowl, peppered as it was by the scars that wrote the story of his life as an experienced, professional killer. He grinned, terrifyingly. He walked up and punched the arm of the pilot of the lead speeder, nearly knocking him off his mount.

The rider was dressed in scout armor, but it was blasted and burned in places, and seams had been visibly patched up with salvaged durasilk. The armor, like the speeders, had been decorated with green and red pinstriping as well. The rider removed his helmet, revealing a dark complexion, and shaking out a large mop of sandy brown hair. His eyes narrowed as he formed his face into fury. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

"Varak," Intan shouted, "your team hit them all! Ride and shoot like that, and we'll be richer than Hutts."

Behind Varak, his gunner passenger was dressed in a re-purposed engineer's trousers and an Imperial flight jacket and helmet with most of the breathing apparatus missing. The rider removed her helmet, uncoiling a pair of green tentacles. The Twi'lek female grinned and lifted her blasters upward as she dismounted. She holstered one, racking the slide on the other to release the smoking plasma coil she'd used up, then re-holstered and repeated this with the other blaster. She smiled, crookedly. She was an excellent shot and knew it.

"The rest of you did fine as well!" Intan walked down and shouted to the other bikes. "You've learned well from this pair."

Varak and Varo were the best team in the Marauders. Varak had been the lead biker scout for years in the dead-end station of the far side of Endor's moon, where they had little to do but conduct retaliatory raids on the Ewoks who had a tendency to string rope across the path of the speeders, attempting to decapitate the troopers.

Varo had been a Second Mate on a cargo ship when she was captured by pirates who murdered the rest of the crew and intended to sell her off to military units long bereft of female companionship. She surrendered, biding her time, and let herself seem helpless and frightened while they held an advantage over her. When the pirate ship entered the atmosphere of Endor's moon, and the pirates were successfully distracted with preparations for selling their slaves, Varo made use of a carefully hidden plasma torch to sneak up and ignite the entrails of her captors, delighting in the surprised final looks on their faces. She greeted the curious stormtroopers at the Endor base who opened the cargo bay. They were expecting it to be merely a mundane merchant with goods and slaves to sell, and they instead found her standing before a pile of the slavers' heads. She asked if they wouldn't be troubled by giving her and her fellow slaves sanctuary. At that point, long cut-off from the Empire, which had already incubated their sense of anarchy, the stormtroopers of the base saw these resourceful, would-be slaves as far more valuable as companions to their group than chattel.

Varo chose Varak as her lover, in the Twi'lek way of the female choosing her mate, and the two had been an inseparable team ever since. Seven other females of different races were part of the crew, as well as three males. They had integrated with the Marauders now, and together they formed a crew that was also a small clan. The former slavers' merchant vessel made handy inconspicuous transportation for this strike team of twenty and their speeder bikes. The rest of the former slaves were left with the Marauder's home base, carved out at Endor, and Varo was so far the only non-trooper who was fully integrated for this merc mission. She had a knack for killing that the stormtroopers admired. Which in turn earned Varak much envy from them for sharing Varo's bed.

The fall of the Empire meant that the old order was in chaos. Without Imperial patrols, while the independent worlds were dizzyingly prattling on about forming up a new republic, there were plenty of lucrative mercenary contracts for scores that needed settling. They had happened upon this most recent opportunity after discreet contact by a Mandalorian looking just for their kind of skills. A Rebel pilot who fancied himself a new Jedi was digging through some ruins where Darth Vader had reputedly hid treasure. This was a potential score of a lifetime, and Intan wasn't taking the job lightly.

They gathered around, now, checking their weapons, wiping the dust from goggles and dented armor. Intan had pulled out a barrel of ale procured from the sellers at the Vossik settlement. He touched a Correllian gang tattoo on his face for luck. There would be time enough to repair their coils and tighten the repulsors. Now, they gathered to toast the memory of fallen comrades and a dead emperor. And most importantly, the promise of wealth to come.

::: | ::: | :::

Jafan personally thought stormtrooper helmets looked slightly ridiculous with the plasma lights fashioned to their sides, but they did the trick. The Centopt of the garrison nonetheless kept his opinions to himself as he led his men into the darkness below the Keep. The reflective orange chevron of rank on his shoulder was conspicuously visible with the slightest reflection in that darkness that swaddled even the polished finish of their armor.

Likely, Vader himself had come down here. He had taken this castle as a gift from Palpatine, but it was more than mere coincidence. He chose to spend time here during the Empire's height, and he resided in the passages above in the old Keep. If he was meditating on the Force, or guarding treasures, then he had taken his secrets into the Force. But the ancient Voss mystics had felt the Force strongly with this place. They had mixed Light and Dark with reckless consequences, and had once considered this place sacred. The unusual crystalline structure of the castle itself lent evidence that they had sought to channel those powers. To what end that was, even the current mystics no longer knew.

Vader's son, the would-be Jedi, was in the front of Jafan's troops, walking with his hands out to feel into the darkness. He held his gloved right hand on his Jedi weapon, but kept the blade still sheathed, as he held a plasma torch in his left. A blue and white astromech droid bumped next to him, keeping only minimum lights on as it rolled. Jafan and the garrison held their weapons downward and at the ready as their helmets lit their path.

At the very front was Jafan's wife, the Voss mystic, Tylo-Ko. She wore the ceremonial robes of her order, holding out her arms to sense the _Waskaja_ as she made her way through the corridor. She was in the very forefront of the light from the troopers, drifting in and out of Jafan's vision. He was terrified seeing her disappear into the darkness again and again. But he also knew her mystic path was one that was particular to the arts of the Voss. He knew she could, in these trances, somehow see through darkness in a way he found difficult even with a properly fitting HUD. Certainly, as he had meditated on the Force himself, there was a great deal of existence in play beyond the world he could see.

For now, he was determined that if it made itself known here in this world, he would be ready.

The stony passages gave way from the shiny basalt crystals to the far less polished bedrock as they descended into the foundation of the castle. They were leaving the very bottom levels which lay under ancient service passages, past what may have been cellars or dungeons, heading into a tunnel cut into the mountain itself. It was clearly not well traveled. No plasma torches lit the wall, and the moisture down here seemed to condense and drip slowly, as no gutters had been cut. Only the tiniest, crawling creatures made their presence known, with spiders having spun their circular webs in the corners, occasionally snaring their insectoid meals. Besides the footsteps, the steady grind of the Astromech rolling, and the breathing each stormtrooper heard in his own helmet, the only other constant noise was a distant scurry of what must have been womp rats. He grimaced. Womp rates were a particular annoyance of his.

The troop had grown restless over the last week as they awaited orders for this expedition. The fact that the garrison had been so diminished had reduced their ability to effectively keep up much of the usual military discipline. Womp rats had been appearing in the barracks much to Jafan's dismay. The troops, however, found that Skywalker's Trandoshan servant was excited at the prospect of hunting and eating the rats, and they were soon clearing space in the barracks to create a small arena in which they dropped some of the rats for him to pursue as sport. They gathered around hooping and hollering, betting on which rats Drrsala would catch and devour first.

Jafan was of two minds for such things. For one, anything that brings together troops in entertainment that doesn't end with them fighting one another usually was a net positive. Then again, he also worried what this kind of bloodlust might portend. They had been idle for some time on Voss, guarding a Dark Lord as an almost ceremonial gesture. Surely now, with bounty hunters and galactic disruption making appearances at the borders of their otherwise tranquil garrison, their well-rehearsed skills in killing might yet come in handy. Stirring bloodlust was a reminder of their skills.

Behind Jafan was newly-promoted Corporal Vancil, with the comm gear on his back, joined to his cyber implants. Behind him was Heff, the lanky, studious lance corporal. Rikka and Balia, rough and ready, were directly behind, carrying long-range rifles on their backs as well as their standard blasters. Reliable Desek, monosyllabic and monolithic in his density, guarded their rear with a heavy gun.

When Jafan gave the briefing to the troop that morning and asked if there were any questions, Heff spoke up.

"Centopt, are we expecting to find resistance down there? Some living entity?"

Jafan had ground his teeth. He himself wasn't sure. It made no sense that anything was in the darkness down there that could pose a threat. But if there were, Vader left no warning behind.

"We don't _expect_ anything down there. But we don't prepare only for what we expect. Keep the comms low unless you see anything, or something comes up on the scopes. There could well be passages down there. That could mean that there are traps waiting to be sprung. Or dormant droid guardians."

He had to assume that there was nothing that was able to get past the deflector shield. But he didn't rule out secret passages, or that Vader somehow had resident guardians down there all along. Anything else Jafan could think of didn't belong to be considered by a rational trooper trained in the science of war.

The material around them now had changed. The rocks had converged together, and it appeared that they had come to a wall. Lights from the helmets darted up and down the old stone as the troops searched for where the seams were in this boundary. The rocks were more solid, and looked more worn than the passages thus far. The ground itself was also flat. They had found the base of the castle itself, and what itself had been the flat summit of the mountain, once likely a mystic sacred place, long before the Keep was even built up around this summit.

The lights across the stones now converged at a gap in the wall. This was an opening that may have been an original gate from before the castle itself was erected around it. This was the boundary to the sacred space.

Tylo stood at the gate. She turned and slowly lowered her hood, revealing her skin's colorful mixture of white and red patterns, with a tincture of blue. She beckoned to the Jedi and her husband the stormtrooper commander. As they approached, she spoke softly.

"We are deep in the castle now. This is the entrance to a very old chamber of mystics. I can sense that much. Beyond that wall's gate they have left a boundary strong with the Force."

Her look was serious. "Do not draw or brandish your weapons. What is beyond there will only be what we bring with us."

Jafan saw that Skywalker's nostrils flared with recognition of those words. That troubled him. He was out of his league in the mystics' and Jedis' worlds. He didn't know at all what to expect here.

As they returned to their respective positions in the line, Jafan found his nerves growing slightly on edge. If he were sensing danger in the Force, he preferred not to dwell on it. His untrained instincts might yet betray him. He had long learned to rely on cool reserve and a well aimed blaster as better assurance than old religions. Despite his respect for the Jedi, he knew that this hadn't changed in him.

Tylo walked through the gate with her arms up, disappearing into blackness. Searching dots of light from stormtrooper helmets followed Skywalker, the droid, and Jafan as the troop entered one-by-one. The ground beneath them now was much different than the passageway. It was a soft, very fine dust. It was the bare ground that had been brushed and flattened eons ago. Perhaps also it was also covered in ashes from bonfires. Or maybe even pyres. Dust swirled in the searching dots of light from their procession.

Their lights were now the sole illumination in the space, swallowed into nothingness as there was nothing solid nearby to reflect the beams. The darkness was otherwise complete this far down in the Keep.

Luke paused. He held up an arm to order a halt. Jafan repeated the signal which was repeated down the line by the rest of the troop. The astromech made a quizzical chirp, spinning its dome. In the darkness, Skywalker put his left hand against the small droid to calm and quiet it.

Then Jafan heard. Almost indiscernible at first. It seemed like it might be wind whistling from a passage. But it came much clearer to him as he drew himself into the Force. In his steady, calming repose, his senses warmed. It was a child's voice they heard. Faintly. Echoing slightly. It was softly sobbing.

Under his armor, no one could tell Jafan's hair follicles were rising as his skin tightened. His pores opened with a cold sweat. His overskin suit was now compensating, changing the ambient temperature against his skin, eating his clammy perspiration in a mechanical attempt to steady his body's stress. His vat-grown heart pumped heroically, as it was itself only a third of the age of the rest of his body.

The rest of the searchlights passed over the walls as the troops now must have heard the voice and were looking through every angle for where the sound was coming from. Jafan kept his light on Tylo, far in the lead. She was spreading her arms and turning, like an antenna dish adjusting to find a signal. He wondered if she felt the panic that he had at the child's voice. As a parent, he wondered if this wasn't digging in to him especially hard.

Skywalker whispered into the comm-link.

"The Force is strong here. And the Dark Side is especially so."

"Commander," Jafan hoarsely whispered, "you hear the child?"

"I do, Centopt. But I don't think that is coming from a real child. It's through the Force."

"Can the rest of the troop hear it as well, Master?"

Luke whispered again to his wrist. "The Force doesn't just touch the adept, Jafan. It touches every living thing. Some are just more sensitive to that touch."

Vancil spoke up on the comm-link. "We can hear it, Sirs. But the sound is not registering on the microphones or HUDs. It's as though it's a sound we're all imagining at once."

The troopers turned slowly, scanning the room. The lights converged on one of the corners of the curved wall barrier where it curved around after they had entered. There was nothing visibly there. Yet the sound seemed to be echoing from that location. Jafan motioned the troop to follow him as he approached the source. They moved slowly and smoothly, not wanting to make more noise than necessary. This was more instinct than strategy, as they had no sense of whether their noise made any difference at all to objects in the Force. Skywalker walked cautiously alongside them. The astromech remained still, but bleeping a protest. Tylo stood in her place, still turning, communing with the Force remnants of the mystics. With the lights off her, she fell back into complete darkness. Jafan worried about leaving her out of his sight, but he ground his teeth hard and told himself to trust her abilities as a mystic.

As they scanned the wall, a figure began to materialize into view. Small and hairless, it seemed to be a human boy dressed in rags. He sat with his head down. The troopers halted in their steps. Not a word was said as they all were speechless.

Jafan cleared his throat. He found his mouth was almost too dry to open. "Boy," he said, "who are you? What is your name?"

The ghostly boy looked up. He wiped his tears. "My name is Dessel. I'm hiding."

"Hiding from who? Who are you afraid of?"

"My father. He beat me for spilling the amphora. I hate him!"

The stormtroopers were still for a moment. Unsure what to do. There was tension apparent in each of them as they held their weapons, with fingers off the triggers, pointing toward the ground, even as all their instincts told them to be on guard.

Centopt Jafan whispered into the comm-link. "Easy, troopers. No sudden moves. Do not point your weapons at anyone."

The blue astromech droid had been silently rolling backward in the darkness. It stopped, bumping into something on the ground. Instantly, bright panels of plasma-fluorescent lights mounted on poles burst to life, flooding the entire ring with a blueish, blindingly bright light.

Instinctively, the stormtroopers whirled around and held their weapons aloft in defensive positions.

Jafan screamed. "NO!"

Even as he had his own weapon holstered, he held up his hand to warn the stormtroopers off. Checking his perimeter, he turned his head and could no longer see the boy. If he was ever there.

They could see now that inside the wall they were in a circular ring, maybe no more than 40 meters in diameter. There were seven stone plinths, each larger than a man, spread out among the ring. They seemed to be marked with petroglyphs. Tylo stood in the middle of the ring, blinking in the sudden light. The plasma-fluorescents had been placed around the ring much more recently than this place had been built. Perhaps by Vader himself for his own purposes.

Jafan could see that the Jedi's face was strained. He held on to his lightsaber, but he still had not ignited the weapon. He shouted now, even though the room was nearly silent, with only the slightest hint of moving air and the distant hum of the lights.

"It's alright! The lights… they must have been placed here! Artoo bumped into a floor line that must have triggered their switches. They're… they're just mechanical."

On that, the humming ceased and the lights were suddenly cut off. Once again, the troopers found themselves huddling in darkness. Even worse, now that their corneas had widened in the light, the darkness was even more oppressive to their senses. Inside their helmets, the soft lights of their HUDs began to glow again, changing to the holo-real view, making them once again feel isolated inside their shells. The silence in the room now seemed to only amplify the booming of the pulsing blood Jafan could hear in his head.

The astromech turned and made sounds like a nervous song. Footsteps were heard in the darkness. With Jafan's light focused on her back, Tylo stood tall and put her hands together in a trance. Skywalker stood at the fore of the troopers and steadied himself. He held his weapon, but still did not draw the plasma blade. The footsteps were heard in a steady cadence crunching the dirt as something seemed to walk towards them.

They heard the sound of a mechanical re-breather. A figure cloaked nearly entirely in black came forward from the darkness, impossible to clearly distinguish in bouncing light from the troopers' helmet lights. But there was movement. And reflections gleaming from the angles and curves from contoured armor.

Darth Vader emerged. The gait and the height was unmistakable. He continued to move forward to the group. Still breathing, he extended an arm and ignited a red lightsaber.

The troopers still held their weapons. But were otherwise paralyzed. Half in fear, half in sheer disbelief. Each found it was impossible to breathe. Vancil and Desek both collapsed to their knees in shock. Jafan's mind exploded: was Vader choking them? No. It was his own shock — their own shock — that had seized their bodies and halted their breath.

Skywalker still stood in front, still facing Vader. He had yet to move. His right, gloved hand still held the saber. Skywalker's blade was still not ignited. His hand was shaking slightly though. The young Jedi stood still, seeming to fight any fear inside himself, facing down the vision before him.

Impossibly, Jafan watched as Skywalker carefully holstered his weapon. He held up his open hands in surrender. He bowed to one knee. Jafan found himself more fully shaking now. He looked to Tylo. She remained unmoving, still in a trance to the side, with her hands together and her eyes shut.

Vader stopped before Luke. He raised his lightsaber, the hum cutting through the air. Almost ceremoniously, he sheathed the blade and replaced it in his own belt hilt. Looking downward, his hands reached up and clutched at his helmet. Without a sound, now, the helmet was unlatched and removed, and Vader placed it on the ground.

His face was not the face of the old man. It was young, with a full head of brownish hair not unlike Luke's himself. Skywalker remained on his knees, peering at the ghostly image of what was his father.

Vader's face was human. But pale. Even as the eyes were open, they were opaque. Jafan could clearly see it now: this was an illusion. His tempered practical senses told him it was probably a hologram. That was the only thing that made sense. But his inner eye told him it was something else entirely. Something that was slipping in from another world.

Vader knelt toward his son. He stopped there. He leaned in as though speaking to the kneeling Luke. Slowly, he stood up and turned his back. The helmet-less Vader walked back into the darkness, his weapon still sheathed, still leaving his helmet on the ground.

The lights returned suddenly, and once again Jafan was blinded. In the brightness of the light, once he had blinked several times and his eyes adjusted, there was no trace of Vader or his helmet. Luke rose up, looking pale. He exhaled with a great relief, shaking slightly. The troop relaxed and returned to their feet, their breathing slowly returning to normal, although each of them felt their nerves practically vibrating. Jafan was at a loss as he looked around. His mind was battered with what he had seen. But his discipline and training snapped together. He shouted to the troop.

"Holo-recorders! Those plinths which are in this room need to be recorded! Get a 360 of them."

The troops were relieved to be given mundane orders to follow. They each were still trembling, even if only slightly, and known only to themselves, hidden by their armor. The Astromech rolled into position. Vancil handed out the holo-recorders, and the troopers followed the blue droid's lead, each taking an individual perspective shot. Each recorder was set to a different spectrum which would be processed once they were back at the base.

Jafan walked to Tylo. She stopped her trance and inhaled. She exhaled after a moment, opening her eyes, looking less like the serene mystic in that moment, but truly like a self-conscious creature overwhelmed by her surroundings. Jafan put a gloved hand to her face. He saw the contours there, and the combinations of white and reddish patterns, and that had captivated him with their beauty. She did not quite smile, keeping her composure as a mystic, but she put a hand against his gauntlet and held it to her face. Her eyes met the unchanging stormtrooper visage of her helmeted husband, and she gave a knowing look as her mouth was still agape, as she was breathing heavily, overwhelmed with the rush of events happening around them. Jafan gave the slightest nod in affection as he held his hand against her cheek. The moment they shared was minimal, but well rehearsed from years of their acquaintance.

He turned then, focusing back on his command. It took not even a minute for the astromech and the troopers to circle the plinths, recording as they went. The Centopt turned toward Commander Skywalker, who still stood shocked, surveying the pit and the surroundings, a vein throbbing in his throat as he seemingly contemplated the events.

"Master…" Jafan addressed him now not as a commander, but came to Luke as a Force adept learning the ways. "… was it the Force? Was it truly Vader?"

Luke nodded and spoke hoarsely. "It was a piece of Vader. And of Anakin. But he was pushing through something very dark to reach me. This place is strong with the Dark Side. Our lives and our presence in the Force is drawing it out. That's what he told me. As a warning. I now understand what he was doing here."

Luke seemed to Jafan as if he was now just waking up. "When the troops are done, we should move on. We've seen enough here."

Jafan whistled to the troop and spun a finger in a circle to signal them to rally. They attached the recorders to their belts and clanked forward. Swiftly, they took up their squad positions in defense as Tylo and Skywalker went up ahead. They disembarked, walking backwards. Once back in the dark corridor, their helmet lights fired up once more, pushing against the darkness. Behind them, the lights in the ring detected that they were no longer needed and shut off automatically. Or so Jafan assumed that was why.

They now were then back to being blanketed by a darkness only intermittently punctuated by their helmet lights. The sound in Jafan's helmet was now once again his own breathing and pulsing heart, and the crunching of their feet on the dirt, soon giving way to the scraping sound as they reached the stones of the passage.

Softly, like it was itself no more than wind, a voice was audible in the distance. To Jafan, it was the softest sound he could imagine, coming almost jarringly directly through the Force and just touching the back of his mind. It was a laughter, much like the phantom child's crying, but turned deeper and adult. It was disturbingly joyless laughter. Then it spoke as a voice no more than a whisper.

"We will meet again, Skywalker."

Jafan was lightheaded. His body was feeling the strain of the periodic bouts of terror that had pumped adrenaline through his system. He pushed out the animalistic fight-or-flight instincts that clouded his mind and focused on the task at hand by centering himself with the Force. He thought only of leading his troops, and escorting Tylo and the Jedi to safety. Back into the haven of the surface and the garrison. Back into the light.

::: | ::: | :::

In the canteen of the Imperial barracks, Tylo leaned her head against the plasteel wall. The utilitarian structure supported her back without much comfort. The bench itself at least was more yielding and sank slightly under her exhausted body.

The pre-fabricated structure was made from interlocked fibrous panels: smooth, curved, and bone-white, simply assembled from prefabricated kits per the needs of the Imperial posts. The interior of the structure was lit by fluoroluminous panels in the ceiling, with pipes connecting power and airflow throughout the structure. How efficient; how like the Empire, she thought. Even here, in the wilds of Voss, far from central control, in a landscape mostly unbroken from its natural state, the organized, symmetrical and antiseptic lines of Imperial order had been imposed.

She had spent much of this day in a ritualistic trance as they descended into the lower part of Vader's Keep, focusing on what her order of mystics called in their language the _Waskaja_ ; the "unknowable true" in direct translation, and what the galaxy had long called "The Force." She had felt the utter darkness that lingered there under the Keep. A feeling being near to the darkness tickled her nerves in an unsettling way like being devoured by a thousand shivering shadows disappearing into her flesh. In the time of the tyrants and the fights against the ancient Gormak, the otherwise benevolent mystics would draw wrath and fury from there as they saw fit. They had learned the deliverance of destruction on loan from the Dark Side, and they soon also learned its price with their own corruption and demise. The mystic orders had ever since been fanatical about searching for balance.

As the Jedi had found out during their own time, the dark path had a tendency to dominate the destiny of those who thought they could pull only delicate sips from its power.

The mystics had long known of the darkness in the castle, long before Vader took it as his own. She had moved back to Voss after her travels through the galaxy because others had asked her to return here and finish her mystic training. Because they also wanted to know: what would the Dark Lord of the Sith be interested in with the castle on a backwater mountain here on their tiny world? Trained as she was as a mystic in the Voss tradition, she had technically not fallen under the rules against studying The Force in the Empire. The mystics in the hills here were simply too insignificant to the rest of the galaxy for Palpatine's inquisitors to bother. But she had made a promise to others that would she would do her part and watch what Vader was doing.

But that was a long time ago. She had seen the galaxy on her own, from the Correllian shipyards, to the pleasant Alderaan highlands that were, and swimming in the tides of the oceans of Dac in the Calamari system. She remembered visiting the moons of Yavin and the city of Jedah as well. This small world and tiny outpost in Voss, far even from the city of Voss-Ka, was just a dot on the far edge of the galaxy. The weight of the darkness she'd seen this day made her feel more vulnerable than she ever had before, and brought home the burden she had once sworn to bear.

The door slid open and Jafan appeared. He was out of his armor and wearing the loose, gray Imperial fatigues he favored when he was off duty. He was by himself, no longer keeping his martial bearing in front of the men. He came over with the wry smile in his otherwise lumpy head that always endeared him to her, in the way she thought of as a brutal handsomeness. She stood up and embraced him, letting herself relax and be held by his arms. He held her for several heartbeats while she leaned into him, resting her head in his chest. She held it there as he ran his hands on her back.

In all their time together, there were truths she hadn't told him. The fear of what that truth could have meant to him, and what the consequences could be for him, had always halted her tongue. Even in moments as close as this, after all these years, she had stopped herself from speaking about what she had sworn to in that city far away. She felt that she could speak the truth now, but still it could mean danger. Jafan was still Centopt. The words dissipated before they left her mouth.

She long could tell he could sense the Force more acutely than most people. Had circumstances been different, had there been no Palpatine, perhaps he would have been a Jedi. Or a temple keeper. Although the thought of Jafan as a passive monk filled her with a sense of mirth.

Jafan's jaw tightened like he meant to speak, but he hadn't found words yet. He exhaled strongly, and in all his strength, there was a slight tremble of emotion she sensed in him. She put the other thoughts out of her mind, and contemplated only what they had experienced that day. She spoke first.

"The Jedi may have found what he was looking for. It seems certain that Vader had come here to commune with the artifacts of the ancient mystics and their hold on the Dark Side."

Tylo would never have spoken of such spiritual things in the time before Skywalker had come and encouraged him to develop his nascent Force sensitivity. He had been all about duty and routine and verification of every aspect of life to an absurd detail. But he also was true to his word, and for that, she always felt safe in his arms. He never had much to say about what it meant to him that she was a mystic. But he asked for her insight now.

"That thing that looked like a child? Was it Vader somehow? Part of his ghost?"

"No" she said firmly. She spoke without raising her head from his chest.

"It was something else. Vader had communed there. He had used the tower as a beacon to the Dark Side. He came here to study it. I believe he must have thought that the ancient Voss had learned to control the Dark Side. He had opened a hole, and the Dark Side had punched through. That's where that thing that appeared like a child came from."

Jafan spoke in a slightly hushed tone. As usual, when he had come to a decision, he was clipped and to the point.

"Skywalker in fact said he thinks he has found what he needed to. And he will be preparing to leave very soon. I think we should consider leaving with him. I ran over all the possibilities before I came to this decision."

"You always do." She sighed with a sense of relief at his inflexible reliability on that matter. "I will speak to Skywalker myself, Jafan. He has one last task to complete here on Voss. He needs to go to a sacred place of the mystics, and commune with the _Waskaja._ This is to see through the Dark Side that is strong with the castle, and to see through Vader's ghost."

She paused and inhaled again, looking up into his eyes before she continued.

"Yes. The children are at risk here. Too many scavengers will come for what Vader left behind." She knew she was agreeing with him to now betray something to which he had given much of his life. They were discussing abandoning his post and leaving the Corps for good.

"The Empire is over, Jafan. It's time to get away from the Keep. It's time to leave behind being a stormtrooper. Worse things will come here for what the Dark Side left behind here. They will be drawn to it."

"Even worse…" Jafan now looked away as his jaw tightened as he tried to imagine the things that could mean. The time had come to put behind his stormtrooper career once and for all.


	10. Chapter 10

Lando relaxed his arms, cupping his hands together and resting them behind his head. Something he'd learned from decades of being a smuggler, pirate, and entrepreneur, was to know when things were handled, and in turn not worry about the details beyond the thing itself. The call had come in from Skywalker that he needed exfiltration. They were heading to Voss, now, under full light. The cargo bays of this Tydirium shuttle were empty, and they were ready to load up the Jedi and the items he was recovering that once were Vader's. The message had said to expect extra passengers as well, so extra provisions were packed.

The downside of the re-purposed Imperial shuttles was mainly that they were, he reflected, too well made. He found it a bit of a let-down. There was something that thrilled him about rewiring a simple freighter to pull more power, buffeting its housing with just the right insulation, and hacking it to get every kind of advantage possible. But these shuttles weren't built for utility, first and foremost, like most freighters. Nor had they been overhauled and haphazardly upgraded as most of the junkers in the outer-rim had been. They were expensively engineered to be both militarily enhanced in their engines, weapons, and armor, and were expensively maintained. Every dent and scuff on the insides was replaced, buffed, or polished on schedule. There was no joy here of squeezing extra performance out of every angle, or re-purposing components in a clever way. These were not from the sharply honed outer-rim minds that knew how to hustle and plead every bit of efficiency out of a craft. These were core-world all the way; born to transport in supply lines that never feared running short of fuel or parts.

Not that he was complaining. The CO chair in which he was resting had been made for someone used to the respect and luxury of the Coruscant ruling class. He found he could stretch out easily enough, and stare up out of the viewport at the streaks of stars while the ship was engaged in a light-speed tunnel.

Fair enough, he thought, pouring himself a narrow glass from a bottle he'd found in the CO's quarters. It was a sinus-clearing distillation, smelling a bit like Salakberry, probably engineered by a military bidder just so the CO could toast the Emperor with the crew. It did pack a pleasant wallop, though. Here's to you, Palpatine, Lando thought, and your functional, government-contract distilleries.

Nien Nunb watched the ship's wheel, while strumming on an instrument from his homeworld that was something like a harp held in his lap. Lando's best six commandos were resting in the ship's cargo hold in case they ran into trouble. There was little else to do now but wait it out and enjoy the trip.

::: | ::: | :::

Luke tossed his head back, pushing aside the hair that was falling in his eyes, and peered down the ridge. The rocks jutted out of the mossy carpet of the hills reminding him of the Krayt dragon bones he'd climbed over as a child back on Tatooine. But these cool, green hills of Voss were lush. And moisture, the scarcest commodity from back home, was abundant on this world. From up here he looked back again at the Vossik village far below. Jafan and the patrol had escorted him to the village to meet with the mystics, and they waited down there now. He turned his head back to the path ahead, he could see the spires of Vader's Keep to his west.

He kept his footing on the ridge as he navigated the narrow path. Tylo, the Voss mystic, led the way, ducking under the overlying branches which obscured much of the trail from the bleak sunlight piercing through the dense leaves. Behind him, Luke's young oathman and servant, Drrsala the Trandoshan, made his way in relative silence, effortlessly supporting his packs of supplies on his back.

Most trails in the mountains were well-worn by herders of nerffs with packs, or on mounted beasts. This was a trail in rougher terrain, however. They were heading up past the nerff grazing playa, up toward the summit where the mystics would meditate on the Force. These were the old Gormak hills, where the primitive ancestors of all the Voss hunted and huddled in caves. They were a special place to commune with their understanding of the Force, the _Waskaja_. They faced Vader's Keep straight on, over the valley in which the village was built, but they were distant enough to not be overwhelmed by the strong Dark Side presence that was amplified by the crystal spires of the Keep.

Luke steadied himself with a stick as they pressed upward. He lifted his wrist to bring up the comm-link.

"Threepio, are you there?"

"Certainly, Master Luke!" came the reply. "I am pleased to report that most of the holocrons have been efficiently stored in the cargo cases and are being prepared for transport!"

"Most of them? What do you mean?"

"Well…I have counted four hundred and twenty-one holocrons! And sixty-seven lightsabers. We have prepared them in their individual containers, and have already loaded one of the pallets with one-hundred and fifty holocrons!"

"All right, Threepio. I'm going to ignore your use of the word 'most' and just remind you that we will be out of comm-link range shortly. We should be back sometime just after nightfall."

The golden droid sounded crushed at the rebuke.

"But… sir! I only meant that we had _pre-stored_ the items, which _should_ be most of the work, we will be loading the rest of them as we speak! I can only, say, sir, I _am_ designed for protocol, and if we only had access to loader droids, this would be _so very much_ more efficient…"

Luke had already began steadying himself after balancing on his walking stick.

"That's fine, Threepio, that's fine…"

"…but I shall, _nevertheless_ endeavor to do my very best, as I always intend…"

"Threepio, stop explaining! You're doing fine! I'm closing the link now."

"Very well, Sir. And I do wish you a very…"

Luke closed the line. He mused that for a droid built for communication, C-3PO was often not very good at picking up inflections.

Drrsala made a noise. Luke wasn't sure if he was wheezing with effort or chuckling.

Hours later, they had reached the summit on the highest hill. Much of the latter climb had been nearly a vertical ascent achieved by wedging their bodies between rocks for leverage. Luke had worried whether there was a danger of slipping. He was angry at himself for being somewhat out of shape. He had spent much time communing with the Force while he was on Voss, neglecting some of the martial discipline he had practiced these past years as a soldier of the Rebellion.

Tylo had strained with the effort to climb as well, but she was resolute and mostly silent. Drrsala seemed completely unfazed by the climb, as if he was indifferent about moving either horizontal or vertical. Even when laden with heavy packs.

They were at a clearing on the top of the ridge. There was a cave entrance in the rocks. The winds were high up here, Luke noted, and most importantly, they were now almost directly facing the spires of Vader's Keep.

Tylo set to work inside the cave's entrance laying down branches and sweeping leaves and debris off the cave floor. She began chanting as she built up a fire, and motioned for Skywalker to sit nearby. They sat themselves near the mouth of the cave, sheltering from the winds, but gathering in just enough light to see their surroundings.

Skywalker took two objects from the pack that Drrsala laid down. One was a metal beaker with water. He drank thirstily. The other object was the meditation holocron he had found among his father's collection, and which he had found useful to enter a deep Force trance. It was the same one he had used to draw out the Force sensitivity of Jafan.

"I'm completely exhausted after that climb," Luke hoarsely croaked as he offered the water to Tylo. "Could we wait to begin the ritual?"

Tylo took some water and took a steady drink, pausing to wipe the moisture from her skin, colored as it was with her Vossik white and red patterns, glistening with the water and her sweat. She adjusted the mystic's robe she wore over her hairless, but otherwise humanoid, frame. She shook her head.

"No, Skywalker. The ritual is performed usually after a rite of climbing this way. It is done after extreme fatigue. Because the participant must be able to taste oblivion. We are dipping into the borders of where the Force exists beyond death."

She motioned to the holocron. "That will be useful to bring you into the _Waskaja_ deep enough. We do not need to run you for days, scourge you, starve you, and make you climb these rocks naked, as is the tradition for this ritual."

Luke took the water back and nodded, somewhat chastened. "I'm grateful for the concessions, then."

Tylo knelt over the charred pit. A pip of a plasma ignitor kindled the dry branches into a fire. Acrid smoke rose up against the rush of heat and light dancing now on the walls of the cave's shadows. Tylo took her place opposite Luke. They both sat with their legs crossed with hands on their knees. Luke waved a hand over the holocron and the mechanical locks whirred into motion as the box unfolded, revealing the calming, glowing blue orb that pulsed within.

He inhaled and began coughing from the smoke. Tylo closed her eyes and began chanting ritual lyrics softly. Minutes passed as Luke felt himself getting lighter. He felt himself floating within the Force itself. Beyond the constraints of his flesh and bone.

Tylo paused. She looked at Luke with sincerity. The firelight danced reflections across her face as the meditation orb emanated blue light that reflected underneath her chin. She took a breath before she continued.

"There is something I must tell you, Skywalker. Before you go into the Force. Why I understand what it was that Vader was doing in the Keep. Why I understand why you are here. Why I understand that this ritual is necessary, now, for you to find something redemptive in your father's legacy."

Luke was silent as she had his full attention. She went on.

"I made a promise to Bail Organa that I would return to Voss. I would complete my training. And keep an eye on the Sith Lord for Obi-Wan's sake. I had other orders, too. I followed them. And I let myself socialize with the stormtroopers of the garrison.

"I kept my distance, still. A Force user as powerful as Vader could have seen if I were observing him closely. I could not have have hid my Force sensitivity. I observed him from afar. With the other mystics, I meditated in our ancient ways. I watched the fluctuations of the Dark Side when Black Mask was here."

Luke's mouth was open, but he said nothing while she spoke. He finally found words.

"You were… part of the Rebellion? You were sent back to Voss as a spy?"

"Yes. Or more precisely, as an operative under deep cover. And if the opportunity arose, an assassin." She closed her eyes and looked downward. Luke swore he saw a trickle from her left eye as she strained the next words.

"But I could not have killed Vader. There was never a chance to get close to him. There was the possibility… through seduction… to sneak in a thermal detonator with one of the garrison."

She breathed heavily, now. Luke could sense the unraveling emotion from this confession.

"But I did not expect to fall in love. But I did. With Jafan. And through the garrison, I saw another side of the Empire. Of good men who were twisted by an evil system. Of a kind Force user who was a trooper, who never explored his forbidden senses. And we became just two more people…"

She stopped now and wiped her eye with the sleeves of her robes. Luke knew that this emotion was unlike that normally revealed by a mystic. This was a deeply personal moment for her. He nodded and swallowed hard.

"We had two children. We had a normal life here. A family. Just another family trying to survive without being crushed by the Empire's heel."

She now looked squarely at him. Luke saw a fiery absolution in her slightly opaque, alien eyes.

"There is a reason why I am telling this to you, Luke. For the sake of my family, yes. But for yours as well. Bail had told me the truth of Vader: that he once was a Jedi named Anakin Skywalker. And that he was the subject of a prophecy. He would be the one who would bring balance to the Force.

"I came to believe that is why he was here. From afar, in the village, I could sense his agony. His pain from his charred flesh drove his rage even further. And from this cave, observing the Keep, I could sense the fury and hatred in his dreams that reached out to the Dark Side. He never forgot that prophecy. He came here to seek the way to that balance. To seek some truth he could find in the remains of the Voss of old. From the holocrons of the Jedi and Sith that he had shipped from tombs and museums across the galaxy.

"Killing Vader here would have done little but expose me as a Rebellion plant, and it would have given the Empire an excuse for genocide. It would have torn apart those who were most important to me: Jafan, my children, my neighbors. I knew the Rebellion might say I hadn't tried. That I had disobeyed orders. But the closer to Vader I was, the more I saw it was futile to rely on his death alone, as impossible as it would have been to make that happen.

"It was Palpatine who was holding his leash, and I knew that nothing would change without his final death.

"The Sith had sought power for centuries. But they were limited in their ambitions. They sought personal power, and personal glory. But Palpatine was smart enough to realize if he seized the reigns of power over the military, over the governments of the galaxy, he had unprecedented power to indulge the Dark Side. With the Death Star, he could unleash death on a scale unlike any other that had come before him. His political power fed his Dark Side power until he was convinced that there was nothing that could stop him.

"But you, Luke. You stopped him."

Luke winced involuntarily. He leaned back and exhaled, closing his eyes. He felt the weight of her emotion breaking through the brave mystic exterior. He spoke softly.

"I could not defeat Palpatine. Not by myself. I did defy him. But it was Va – Anakin Skywalker who killed him in the end."

She nodded. "So it is true. Vader did kill him?"

"My father was dying. Much of Vader had been beaten out of him. But what was Anakin was left in him. And he finished off Palpatine. In the end, they killed one another."

She nodded. "I see."

"Tylo, I know that the Force leaves anchors in places where it is strong. The Dark Side is strong with the Keep. And it holds an essence of Vader there. And worse, part of what Vader unleashed. If we can close it once and for all..."

She shook her head. "The Dark Side is not closed or done away with it. It just is. As with the Light Side. 'Where there is life, there is the Force.' That was an inscription on the temple at Jedah, you know. What we can do here is find out the limits of what Vader himself found. We cannot keep out the Dark Side. But we can remove the anchor that he left behind. So that you can continue from here. And bring the Jedi order back. As you must."

He nodded. "Yes."

There was a pause as they grew silent. Luke focused once more on the Force, feeling himself drawn in once again.

"Lady Mystic, I am ready."

::: | ::: | :::

The garrison was situated at the ridge of one of the peaks just below where Vader's Keep extended to the sky. Assembled as plasteel prefabricated structures, they spread out in a circle that was more than an Imperial kilometer in diameter. There were two main housing barracks side by side with a canteen connecting them. Each one had once housed a hundred troopers comfortably, along with their officers. Three larger, curved plasteel structures were next to them which served as a hanger, power plant, and a storehouse, respectively. Smaller plasteel huts along the circle served as an armory, fabrication shop, a gymnasium, infirmary, and command posts. In the center was a large open ground for muster, PT, weapons training, and landing zones for any visiting crafts. The tauntauns were penned next to a fenced field and plasteel barn at the far end of the perimeter, given room to graze and exercise on the graded slopes going off the mountain when they were not sheltered or working.

The shield which covered the castle and the garrison itself was run from the power plant. For that reason, there was neither fencing nor barricades around the garrison. The post had always been disciplined and polished, but there was never heavy reinforcement. The shield had prevented any attack from outside its barrier. Besides that, the land itself was deserted almost entirely of locals, save for the Voss village at the bottom of the mountain.

The purpose of the garrison itself was largely ceremonial, as it served to guard the castle's only resident, who himself was only occasionally on site. And if anyone sought to engage Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, 200 stormtroopers weren't likely the worst thing they would face.

The troopers had been lucky. For many years, they'd had a holiday away from the war against the Rebellion. While thousands of units were pinned down fighting insurgents on distant worlds, the troopers here spent their time patrolling deserted mountain passes. They spent time hunting, drinking, and getting familiar with Voss village's hospitality industry. A day's hike down the pass (or less than three hours by tauntaun) would lead into the settlement where the traders came to visit and sell goods, services, and the occasional luckless soul. By Imperial decree, Vader's Keep was a Class 2 restricted zone, which meant anyone who was not one of the Voss villagers or an Imperial Officer was required to be a badged trooper, a visitor with a transmitting beacon pass, or they were subject to being killed on sight at the pleasure the Empire.

The death of the Emperor and the fall of Coruscant had mooted all the old decrees. Where once there were more than 200 permanent residents of the garrison, there were now never much more than 30 after most had fled to the remainder of the fleet. It was a skeleton crew that guarded the Keep and Vader's supposed heir. But they still had the deflector shield.

Just what a Sith Lord had been secreting away was too tempting to the adventurers of the galaxy. It didn't help, either, that the Jedi who was now in residence was blamed by the Imperial holdouts for assassinating Vader and the Emperor, had a price on his head from the Hutts, and was also considered a prime bounty by the Mandalorian clans.

Three of the remaining engineers were in the power plant. They had been scrubbing the fusion generators, and checking for any errors in the automated routines. After that, they had done the more mundane tasks of dusting and sweeping out the entire bay. With only a sparse amount of droids available, much of the hands-on maintenance was still done by flesh hands wrapped in plastoid gloves. Finishing the dirtiest work first, they now took a break. Black and gray imperial astromech droids were at task around the edges of the hangar, performing the monotonous close scrubbing of the more contoured part of the generators while their human masters rested.

The engineers wore loose-fitting, shiny sanitary smocks that blocked out dangerous bits of micro particles or toxic substances as they worked on cleaning the generators that drew power from the planet's core. They had transparent sanitary shields over their faces which protected them while allowing unobstructed vision. They had these clear masks pulled back on top of their heads, now. Their smocks were slightly undone as they sat around an overturned plasma coil housing. It was a flat, circular piece of equipment that was burned out long ago, but wide as a wookie is tall, and unwieldy enough that it was just easier to re-purpose it than to drag it out of the power plant for disposal. Adorned with chipped paint with Imperial military insignia on the side, it was now overturned and served as a table.

The engineers were playing a portable Sabaac game. The suspension plate with the cards hovered above the center of the makeshift table as they drank a lunch of synthesized blue milk spiked with a particularly volatile grain alcohol the local Voss brewed.

A lanky engineer leaned back in his plastoid folding chair, quietly sipping his blue milk. He observed the other two deal and bicker. The youngest man, with a mop of unruly blonde hair, guffawed as he shifted the cards in his hand as he dealt them. The remaining engineer, a squat, older man with a bald pate under the sanitary shield resting on his head looked over his own cards and drew vapor from a hookah pipe. He watched the Sabaac plate turn and chime, his eyes following its calls as the next hand fell into place. He smirked condescendingly.

"Nice play, Kannoden."

"Ante up?" asked the blonde man in frustration. The bald engineer pulled on the hookah as he hummed noncommittally.

The play stopped as a shadow came across the table, passing over the floating game plate. The three men looked up, completely bewildered by what they saw. It was a man in what looked like classic Mandalorian armor standing at the vehicle bay entrance. He stood at a rightish angle toward them, armed as he was with a bullpup blaster rifle, with the stock resting in his shoulder as he held a right hand on the trigger which was forward on the barrel, ahead of the action, and his left hand on the rear handle near the stock. They were more surprised than alarmed at the intruder. Glances backward confirmed that the deflector shield controller was still humming away, and the power was untouched. A moment hung in the air as they considered whether this was real or some kind of hallucination. The blonde man wondered if the algal incubator had malfunctioned, breeding hallucinogenic mold into their milk. Such things had been known to happen.

Finally, the lanky engineer snapped awake. He was on the far end of the table, directly facing the Mandalorian stranger. He reached to his breast pocket, tearing open the latch to get a hand on his blaster.

Before he had even drawn his weapon, a plasma bolt burst into his chest, knocking him backwards, killing him before he hit the floor. Without missing a beat, the Mandalorian swiveled and shot the bald, hookah-holding engineer through his open hood, hitting him directly between the eyes.

The young man with the mop of blonde hair fell to his knees with his hands up in the air. His eyes were wide as he stuttered and pleaded for his life.

Jeet Syllba felt the elation of destruction. It had been an embarrassingly long time since he racked up a clean kill. He missed rejoicing in the splendid sensation of the surprise in a victim's face just before a plasma bolt when through it. He walked up to the pleading young engineer now begging for his life.

"How many?!" snarled Syllba. His voice was heavily electronic, behind his red and gray Mandalorian helmet.

"H-How many?" pleaded the young man.

"How many more are inside the hangar?!" Syllba hissed impatiently as he put a boot into the side of the man, knocking him sideways.

"N-none! We're the only ones on duty! The rest are in the b-barracks! I swear!"

"Good." Syllba shot him in the heart, ending their conversation quickly.

The air was mostly silent, now. The Sabaac game chimed, reminding the next player to make his move. The dead bodies gasped air, reflexively. The droids in the corners whirred away, carrying on mindless, routine cleaning duties. Syllba crouched, turning swiftly with his arms extended, sighting through his bullpup blaster rifle's sights, scanning the perimeter of the hangar. He saw no signs that the engineer had lied. The infra-red scanner blinking in the corner of his HUD gave no indication of any living movement left besides his own. He spoke into the comm-link in his helmet.

"The power plant is mine, Intan. Your move."

Intan closed the comm-link in his hand. He swung a hand overhead to gesture to the rest of the Marauders. In uniforms that were most-parts standard stormtrooper issue, but also mixes of biker scout, pilot, and improvised, and all decorated with personalized pinstriping and the occasional Ewok bone, the Marauders rose from their prone positions and moved forward. They kept low, crouching behind obstacles.

They moved smoothly with well-rehearsed cooperation. In squads of five, two aimed high, two aimed low, as the squad leader focused on the objective. They quickly advanced across the grounds, scanning every corner of the garrison. They saw no movement.

Intan bit his lip behind the trooper helmet. Kale kept his word at least. Their codes had let them through the deflector shield without raising an alarm. Once they sent a back-end override, they were able to avoid the usual challenge-response protocols which would have necessarily alerted the garrison to their entry. As he suspected, the garrison was only barely a crew at this point. Dispatching the traitors would be fairly swift work.

The squads approached the barracks. They skillfully attached thermal detonators to the outside of the structures and quickly began double-timing back to the treeline to find cover.

The movement had excited the tauntauns far down at the other end of the garrison. They started bleating in turn, bunched up at their fence. Perhaps they were anticipating feeding time had come early.

Inside the barracks, the remaining garrison was stirring to the tauntaun bleats after sleeping off their night duty. Private Llrellius, KA-448, was on fireguard duty. He had been lazily walking through the barracks, running a polisher over the floor, and barely paying attention when he saw movement outside. Seeing a sudden flash of what looked like stormtrooper helmets running by, he squinted and placed his head to the window. He thought he saw troopers running from the barracks, quickly getting behind the rocks and shrubbery next to the parade ground. It seemed strange enough. He considered raising the alarm, but then considered waking everyone would be stupid if the patrols had come back early and were chasing a ball or a womp rat.

He looked closely and could tell now this was not the patrol. Their uniforms were wrong. Mis-matched helmets and armor pieces, and colored pinstriping. He turned in a panic and reached for the general alarm button on the fireguard vest. But he was too late.

"Fire in the hole!" Intan screamed to his crew as they crouched and covered their helmeted faces. A moment later, four precisely placed thermal detonators went off, and the barracks were torn apart. Twisting shards of semi-molten plasteel bulleted into the sky, spinning off into random directions, arcing eventually to the ground as shrapnel, leaving behind a widening cloud of dust and fire.

The garrison was taken.


	11. Chapter 11

C-3PO had fussed over the mundane duty of loading up Darth Vader's collected artifacts from the castle. While he felt it would be better suited to a loader droid, he was satisfied he had made his case to Master Luke and would suffer as was required. Not being optimized for heavy lifting, he and his three protocol companions nonetheless had compiled and inventoried the lightsabers and holocrons from the Keep. They then had loaded them into plasteel carrying cases, roughly half an Imperial meter square in dimension, and loaded them up in stacks on the repulsor sleds. They then brought them down to the base of the Keep. It was a lamentable fate for machines as sophisticated as themselves to be loading cargo containers. But they performed their duties as expected.

The three blue-tinted additional protocol droids, C-3PP, C-3PQ, and C-3PR, had been assisting Threepio in his duties of translating and archiving the holocrons. They joined their processing power together to evaluate the markings and etchings on the Jedi and Sith artifacts. Now was time to get these artifacts somewhere safe.

At the base of the entrance to the Keep, adjacent to the garrison, 3PP was wrenching closed the first cargo container. Threepio was loading the manifest data into the identity chip. The other two stood by the sled, conserving energy for the trip back up to the Keep for the next load of artifacts.

The tauntauns at the opposite end of the garrison had been bleating for nearly a minute. The droids had not considered that this merited their attention. Threepio found tauntauns were annoyingly braying and stubborn creatures. His linguistic algorithms were always flummoxed into dead ends when trying to decipher the language of dumb beasts.

A sudden blast shook the garrison and wobbled the very ground the droids stood on. They each stumbled, taking several steps to steady themselves. The four droids looked upward and were met with a darkening cloud over their heads. As they switched to thermal imaging, they were pelted with bits of rock and shredded plasteel plating.

"Oh my!" C-3PO shouted.

"This is most _extraordinary_!" 3PP shouted in agreement.

The droids did their best now to close the cargo door together. This was one cargo container, after all, and they had expected to load at least two more.

"I believe that came from the barracks. It could be a power malfunction!" Threepio exclaimed.

3PR did some calculations as her eyes pulsed accordingly.

"I deduce it was less than a 10% chance of a malfunction. I just checked for any power surges in the area. It would have had to come from the power plant if that were the case. And I do see that the deflector shield and the perimeter housings are still fully powered!"

As the droids discussed their analyses, their attention inextricably drawn to functions and probabilities, they barely were aware of the two stormtroopers coming up out of the smoke.

"Oh! I say! It looks like troopers from the base! Over here!"

Threepio waved so as to be seen through the smoke. He watched the troopers emerge into clear view and lift their blasters. He, 3PP, 3PQ, and 3PR raised their hands to show they were nearby. The troopers quickly darted their heads back and forth, taking visual inventory of the perimeter. One of them aimed and shot 3PQ. Her voice emitted a digital shriek as her torso was ignited by the plasma, splitting her into separate pieces.

The other trooper, wearing a biker scout helmet shouted at the shooter.

"Dammit, Mersan! Don't shoot the bloody droids! They're worth money!"

The shooter lowered his weapon and held up a hand. "Scrog it! Nerves, Varak! I wasn't thinking about money!"

"Damned right!" shouted the biker scout apparently named Varak as he smacked the other trooper's helmet with a fist.

C-3P0 kept his hands up. As did his two remaining companions. Their eye modules were pulsing with fright. Otherwise, every servo was unmoving. Threepio noticed that these stormtroopers were very different from the others he knew from the garrison. They had mixed uniform and armor pieces, but all were decorated with red and green pinstriping. They also were less formal with one another. And obviously less disciplined.

More troopers came up from the rolling smoke. They were as ragged and randomly attired as the first two. Threepio noted that there was a female Twi'lek among them as well, wearing most of an Imperial pilot's uniform. A stormtrooper with an eerily calm gait walked up the middle of the group. His helmet had the pinstriping in circles on it, as Threepio had recognized, as a linguistic marking common from Correllian gang tattoos which itself was inspired by the style of Dathomir warriors. Even flushed with terror-induced program calls, and a calculated certainty he was about to be scrapped, C-3PO's mind whirled with linguistic and anthropological calculations. It was his essential function, and thus where his chips focused their work when he was stressed or idle. Or both.

The fearsome trooper removed his helmet to reveal an equally frightening human face: a flat nose with close-cropped hair and a braided beard. He breathed in the smoky air, coughed, and laughed.

"Ah, the smell of burning metal! It's been a spell since we've had a proper scrap, eh, Marauders?"

A murmur went up among the troopers. Varak the biker scout pointed to Threepio.

"Have a look here, Intan! The droids were loading up the containers. Must be spoils of the scavengers. No sign of this would-be Jedi."

The leader with the sneer and braided beard, apparently named "Intan," nodded and turned toward C-3PO.

"Droid! What is your function here?"

"I am C-3PO, programmed for etiquette and protocol, fluent in over seven million forms of communication. I have been employed on many worlds since my first installation, including serving as the chief negotiator for the Manakron system, approximately one-hundred and twenty three years ago…"

Intan grunted as Threepio began his curriculum vitae. Immediately realizing where this was going, the stormtrooper pulled up a ring hanging off his belt with multiple controller fobs attached. He flicked through them with his forefinger and his thumb until he found the one he was looking for. He immediately pointed it at Threepio.

"OH!" Threepio yelped as the fob instantly shocked his system with an override command.

"There now," Intan growled. "This will order you to tell me just what I want. Is your master the one who thinks that he is a Jedi?"

Threepio answered truthfully. "Yes. My master is Luke Skywalker. He thinks that he is a Jedi." A chuckle went up among the Marauders.

"So he thinks he is the son of Darth Vader, huh?"

"Yes. He thinks that he is the son of Darth Vader." More laughter.

Intan now leaned in with a serious drawl to his voice.

"Is Luke Skywalker in the castle there?"

"No. Luke Skywalker is not in the castle."

"Where is Luke Skywalker?"

"Luke Skywalker is away on a mission to commune with the mystics of Voss in the village below."

The stormtroopers looked to one another. Intan looked to the ground and seemed to scrunch his expression as he paused to think. He grew angry and spit, then shouted so as to be heard by the entire crew.

"Tell the Mandalorian to get up here! We're missing his target. Rally here." He spun his hand in the air so it could be seen by all of them. 20 mercenary stormtroopers in re-purposed armor gathered around. Intan turned back to C-3P0.

"Droid!" he snapped. "What are in the cases you are putting in this cargo container?"

"They are holocrons which were collected by Darth Vader. There are approximately one hundred and fifty in this cargo container in individual protective cases."

"What's a bleedin' holocron?" Varak asked to no one in particular.

The Twi'lek female answered. "They're artifacts of the Jedi and Sith. If they were Vader's, they could be very old. Not something you'd sell out of the back of a cantina…" She glanced almost contemptuously at Intan at the last words.

"…But the right collector, well – we'd have to find the right one at the right part of the galaxy – but when we do, they'd pay millions. For each one."

The troopers murmured and nodded, seeming very pleased with the news. Intan seemed to immediately forget the insult. He turned back to Threepio and pressed the fob again.

"Is that all?"

"There are two hundred and seventy-one other holocrons making for a total of four hundred and twenty-one."

"Anything else _besides_ the hocrolons – or whatever they are called?"

"There are sixty-seven lightsabers as well."

At this, the Marauders raised their hands in victory and cheered. Some of them were banging their helmets together. Intan finally grinned. He turned to the Twi'lek female.

"And those, Varo, we can indeed sell out of the back of a cantina. For millions as well."

She smirked and put her hands on her hips, leaning backwards into Varak. He removed his biker helmet, revealing shaggy brown hair that fell about his face. He leaned over the Twi'lek's shoulder as she brushed the hair away from his face and kissed him. The other Marauders continued to cheer and celebrate the plunder they had found.

A hollow voice from a stormtrooper helmet echoed from the smoke that was now dissipating, coming from the back of the group.

"There now. Lose one little Death Star, and the discipline of you troopers all goes straight to Hell!"

The words had come from a tall stormtrooper dressed in glimmering, clean, bone-white armor with an orange chevron of rank on his shoulder. He was walking past the ragged clan toward Intan. Another man dressed in Mandalorian armor with red trim walked next to him.

"Well, Syllba," Intan shouted, addressing the Mandalorian, "the pretender Jedi isn't here after all! And who is your companion?"

The stormtrooper removed his helmet to reveal a closely-cropped head of hair and a permanent scowl under severe eyebrows as thick as a nerff's. Intan chuckled with recognition.

"Well, Sergeant Kale. I've only seen you in civvies before. But I reckoned you were around somewhere to watch the fireworks. Did you come to piss on the wreckage of your former garrison?"

Kale did not share the festive mood. The distinction was very clear by his uniform armor, grooming, and posture that he was still bound by Imperial attitudes towards duty and decorum compared to Marauders and the Mandalorian.

"It's _Lieutenant_ Kale now, Intan. My arrangement of tidying up these traitors and rebel scavengers has seen to that. And I'm happy to watch them burn. But while you attacked the garrison, you didn't get them all. There is a patrol. And it's with Skywalker. Why didn't you get my message to postpone your attack?"

Intan swallowed hard, still smiling through gritted teeth. "We were under comm-link silence. That was the agreement."

Kale pointed severely at his opposite in the Marauders. "You were supposed to turn them on at the arranged time. My message was critical! You were supposed to contact me directly!"

Intan sighed. Then he crossed his arms as though this was beneath his interest.

"Truth? Yeah, Kale, I saw your message to contact you. Right after we turned them on. But we were ready to go! When the codes you gave us worked to get through the deflector shield, we knew we could do the job, and we weren't going to wait. There's money to be made here. We all agreed on that. The Mandalorian paid up his retainer."

The Mandalorian Jeet Syllba bowed his head in a polite ceremonial acknowledgment. Kale still had a frightful sneer on his face.

"The reason those codes worked is the same reason I knew the Jedi wasn't here! My mole on the inside! He is out on patrol with them!"

Syllba raised his hands and coolly walked between the two bickering stormtroopers.

"Gentlemen! I think we have an excellent chance at settlement here! Just point me in the right direction to where Skywalker is, and I will go kill him."

Kale leaned back, reducing his confrontational stance for the moment as he seemed to chew his own tongue. "All right, Syllba. We'll make it happen."

Kale turned and shouted to the group. "They are down in the Voss village below us. The patrol itself won't be hard to pick off. And Skywalker is conspicuous in that he carries a lightsaber on his person."

Varo the Twi'lek smirked. "That will make sixty-eight lightsabers to sell in total."

Syllba pointed a gloved finger to the air and held up a data pad with the other hand. He pressed his finger against the holo screen and there was a boom in the sky above them as the air itself shifted. The deflector shield was down.

"I've configured the power plant for remote control. You and any craft may come and go from this place with ease."

Kale nodded and pursed his furry eyebrows. "Intan, the Marauders should take five minutes to regroup yourselves, but no more than five. Then we pack up and get ready to go on to the village. The longer we delay, the better the chance that they will be aware of what has happened and have time to prepare for us. Do your men have their speeder bikes?"

Intan surveyed his followers. "Yes. It won't be enough for all of us. We only intended to use three speeders in any raid."

Kale turned again. "Then split them up. Leave two here to guard our haul. We'll take your freighter as transport for the rest. We also have the TIE fighters. It's been some years since I took pilot training, but this won't be high-speed landing or dog-fighting. Just target practice on some traitors and toads. The toads themselves will submit quickly or we'll burn them to ashes."

C-3PO noted the word of racial contempt that Kale used for the native Voss villagers. They were called "toads" because of the bright red, blue, or white striped markings on their skin.

R2-D2 was back in the Keep, overlooking all the events. Threepio could sense a sub-frequency distress beacon coming from his inscrutable, stubborn companion. He wrote a "thank you, R2!" file and archived this with his thoughts. He hoped the troopers wouldn't notice the broadcast. It seemed to be rare luck now — the maker had mercy — and the troopers were beset with the promise of riches and thus paid him little attention. Perfectly fine with me, he computed and archived.

The Mandalorian now was staring at the droids. He interrupted the mercenary celebrations.

"Hold on. I have an idea for how we can use the droids to our advantage. Is there any extra or damaged armor in the garrison workshop?"

::: | ::: | :::

Luke pulled himself up from the ground. He was in darkness. The floor was rock. But smooth. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. He felt himself wearing the loose white farmer's tunic he'd worn since he could remember wearing clothes. Feeling around the room with his hands, the walls seemed to consist of a rippled texture of pour stone and silicate bricks piled on top of one another. Even in the darkness, it was unmistakable: Tatooine. He walked the length of the room, and his fingers felt shelves on the wall. He bumped one that was low down, and felt the rattling of his old polished inverter collection. Recognizing the placement in his mind's eye, he reached up above this shelf, but only felt emptiness. He lowered his hand and felt the models of ships he once kept on what was the high shelf. There was the T-hopper, the Freighter, and the Destroyer. It was his childhood room. But he was larger now. And everything was much smaller than he remembered. Once upon a time, he was not able to see above the top shelf. Now it was beneath him.

He felt along the walls that lead into the common hallway. He could now see the dining table in the reflected moonlight coming in from the skylights. He always could see the rooms illuminated just like this on a typical Tatooine night. The cups were set in place. As were the plates. It was home.

He could see the entry to the bedroom beyond. He swallowed hard and shivered. Owen? Beru? Were they here, too? A lump formed in his throat. Standing over his old childhood things had given him a moment of simple nostalgic joy. Now he felt a cold shiver. He was washed over with sorrow and regret.

There was silence close to him. But there was a whistling distant wind. Like night on Tatooine would be. This was home as he remembered it to be.

He realized he had never been completely alone on the farm, and the sensation was eerie. When Owen didn't have itinerant workers, he and Beru would take Luke with them whenever they traveled even a short distance. The Tatooine frontier was too dangerous to be so alone.

His eyes were getting used to the darkness now. The moonlight still bolstered his range of vision. He could more clearly see the outlines of the walls and the windows.

Luke's other senses came into focus. He smelled wood burning. Cocking his head towards the window, he could see a flickering light outside. He made his way to the doorway. In the desert, there was a campfire. He could see figures seated around it. They seemed not to move.

He stumbled into the night. He felt himself walking forward. His limbs were heavy, like he was partially paralyzed. For the first time, he realized that he must be dreaming. Or something like it.

Falling, then crawling, then getting back up, he stubbornly progressed through the sand. Feeling his heavy feet moving as he struggled, he saw the three strangers more clearly, although their faces were still obscured from his view. One of them, possessing a very small frame, was now moving and tending the fire with a long stick. Luke persisted forward, still falling every few steps.

Finally, he dragged himself to the campfire and collapsed to his hands and knees. To his left, two of the seated figures remained unmoving even as the wind rippled the cloth of their cloaks. He opened his mouth to speak to them and found his voice was croaking like he had never properly used it before.

"Is this… am I on Tatooine?"

"No. In a place not in your body, it is. Not asleep. In the Force you are."

"Yoda. Master Yoda."

To Luke's right, the small, green Jedi master was the one stirring the fire. He did not take his eyes away from the flames when he spoke to Luke. Under the hood, Luke saw his long ears rising and falling with his breathing.

Luke bowed his head from his kneeling position. He felt the wind, the heat of the fire, and the coarse texture of the sand. Yet the conversation was clearly heard, as though it was spoken through their minds as much as their mouths. He could hear Yoda perfectly without raising his voice. Everything here behaved like it was a dream, but it also seemed too real to be an illusion.

"Master Yoda, I am humbled to see you again. Please. Please instruct me what I must do."

Yoda sighed. He poked the fire some more, taking his time. He hummed to himself for a while, pondering his response. Finally, he spoke up.

"Your journey this is. Here, am I, because you have drawn me here. To me, address your questions, you may. But all your answers, I cannot give."

"Master. Am I in the past?"

"No. In the Force, time does not move that way. The past you see now. But the future is here, also."

Yoda still presented him with riddles. He paused to consider this. Clarity began to form in Luke. He no longer felt as though he were dreaming. He began to remember where he was. Who he was.

"Master. Am I still on Voss?"

"On Voss your body is. Through the mystics there, you have been lifted here."

Yoda finally looked up and peered directly at Luke. There was an ethereal, blue glow outlining his old master as there was for all beings who were one with the Force. Yoda gestured to the log on the opposite side of the fire, on Luke's left, on which were seated the two silent figures. They now removed their hoods and looked into Luke as well.

"Ben. Father." Luke bowed his head again.

"Sit beside us, young one," Obi Wan smiled, gesturing to the space between himself and Anakin. "You have come such a long way to get here."

Luke took the seat, bewildered to see the dead so tangibly. He could feel the air moving around the fire. He could sense the heat. He sat next to the ghost of his father and his first teacher, and directly across from the last great teacher of Jedi.

Anakin stared straight at the fire. He was the young Anakin that Luke had seen in the Force. Not the scarred old body that was trapped in Vader's armor.

"Do you know what this is, Luke?" Anakin drawled as he gestured at the fire.

"It is the Force. I do not know how I know. But I know."

Yoda hummed approvingly. He poked the fire some more and spoke again.

"The Force it is. Feel, do you, the warmth? Sense, you do, the light? Yes. Sense it, you do. But touch it, and burn you, it will. Wield it — try and hold it, and it will burn you as long as you close a fist around it."

Luke held his left hand out. Shaking slightly, he felt the flames lick against him, singeing the delicate flesh.

Anakin spoke ominously. "But if you hold your other hand, Luke – the one that is not flesh – what would it be? You would not feel the pain, would you? The machine would not be harmed.

"When you are in the fire. When you are deep within it, but you are mostly machine, you do not sense all of it. It burns, but you do not feel it. You think you are its master. But you're senseless to its nature."

Ben leaned in from Luke's right side.

"Darth Sidious could indulge the Dark Side like no Sith ever had before. With his machines, and his ability to wage galactic war, few things at his command could feel the pyre to which they were feeding his victims. He sat atop a galaxy of unfeeling machinery that did his bidding. And the Dark Side gained power."

Anakin leaned forward again, holding his hands together in a fist. He leaned over to address his son.

"I had power in the Dark Side. It was power like nothing I could imagine before. But it burned me. Until my own voice was burned away. And I could no longer see the light at all. I sought to control it. To balance it. To tame it. But the more I tapped into its power, the deeper I was buried in the fire."

Luke sighed and looked at the landscape that was around him. In the Tatooine wastes, features were only dimly visible in the moonlight.

"And this place, Father… Well, not this place, exactly. But Voss. Here. You had looked for a portal to the Dark Side beyond Palpatine?"

Anakin looked down to the fire again, scowling, his hands still clenching one another.

"Yes. That is true. And I found the Dark Side would burn. Like a fire that never runs out of fuel."

To underlie this point, Anakin leaned back. He opened the brownish vestments he wore by pulling at the robe. Inside his clothing, where Luke expected to see scarred skin, there was nothing. No skin, no bone, but simply void.

Yoda, on the opposite side of the fire hummed and nodded. He poked the fire some more.

"Powerful was Sidious. But not alone was he. Not merely Vader or other Sith. But a long line, it was, of Sith who sought power over death itself. All sought power in the Dark Side, they had. Remains, the legacy does, here and elsewhere. Dormant, it appears, but awaken, it always will."

Ben looked again at him with his patient eyes.

"The dark portal that was open here, on Voss, in places strong with the Dark Side, must be closed. You can do this through your will. We can help you. But you must also bury this portal so that others who stumble across it do not get seduced by its power. You need to prevent it from being used as a weapon."

Luke was steady in his response.

"I understand, Masters. Where do we start?"

"Where we start," Anakin spoke with a certain gravity, "is we have a monster to catch."

::: | ::: | :::

Jafan still had his armor on, but without his helmet for now. He was helping his children carry bundles of reeds through the village. The wise elder mystic, Tano-Ko, needed his dwelling repaired, but he was too aged to do this himself. So the village contributed their efforts in turns. It was a rare chance for Jafan to do something constructive with his children, rather than leaving much of their care to their mother.

His son, Qyr, fumbled with the process of holding the reeds straight and tying them together with the fibrous sinews in the correct way. The boy worked hard, though, and was trying his best as his small body would allow.

Qyr had told his father how he dreamed of riding a tauntaun some day, not leading a nerff. And he imagined he'd have a ranch of his own, somewhere on a planet far from here. The man had listened to his son, entertained by the details of the saddle the boy described, like one Qyr said that he saw in an old adventure holovid. Qyr wanted a saddle like that, and he swore he would learn how to make it.

He'll make a fine man, Jafan thought. He's diligent. He cares about what he does. He knows that there are people who love him. He's not an orphan in Nar Shadaa, scrounging to survive by learning the arts of theft and violence. Hopefully, he won't have to be a grunt in some war, either.

Panna, his oldest, was something special in another way. She had less enthusiasm for the drudgery of this repetitive work. He knew she had a quick mind and a strong will that would serve her well. For now, he noticed that it meant she didn't suffer tedium easily. But if we go far from here, it will open up possibilities for her. She would do well in the galaxy. She'd be able to absorb much education and training from the variety of worlds they may see.

She was strong in the Force. Jafan knew she was already nearly stronger than he ever was. In a galaxy where the Jedi were no longer banned, she could wield the Force openly as her ally. She would go far.

Jafan was busy securing the reeds he'd wound with the sinewy twine when there was a burning, frightful sensation in the back of his mind. Through the Force, he knew something terrible had just happened.

He looked to Panna, as she had stopped what she was doing as well. She looked up to him with a puzzled expression.

"You felt a great loss just now, didn't you, Panna?"

She nodded slowly. "I don't understand what that was. I just felt…that people had just died!"

Jafan looked upward. From down here, they could see the spires of the Keep pointing skyward. They couldn't see the garrison itself from this angle. Jafan felt muscles in his neck flexing as he saw smoke coming up over where the garrison would be. A rumbling sound came a second later. He gestured to his children and brought them close. They were hesitant at that, wondering what kind of danger could so upset their father. He embraced them both firmly.

"I have to go. It's the garrison." The children looked surprised. But they knew how serious their father was with his job. He held them tightly for several breaths.

"When I know everything is okay, I'll be back." He spoke as he pulled his helmet over his face.

Mounting the hill, Jafan passed the villagers who barely acknowledged him. The Voss were squinting, staring up at the mountain, and pointing. Jafan reached the rest of the patrol. Vancil was attempting to get a signal on his communications gear. He saluted the Centopt and turned to get out of the way.

Lance Corporal Heff had his helmet off to better view the mountain through a pair of macrobinoculars. His blue Chiss skin was a contrast to the white armor. Desek, Balia, and Rikka stood next to him, fully armored and holding their weapons. They were all apprehensive.

"Can you see anything, Lance Corporal?"

"Dust and smoke. There was certainly some kind of explosion."

Jafan turned to Vancil.

"On the comm-links? Anything?"

"The signal is still there, Centopt. The garrison must still be there and power is still on. I'm not getting anyone online at the moment. There is no emergency signal or alarm, however."

"That's still not good. Something must have happened. There must be casualties up there. I definitely don't like it. I'm going to assume that they've come under attack."

Heff pondered this. "Centopt, if someone is attacking the garrison, it would stand to reason that they might be after Skywalker. And since he's over here, but up in the mountains on this side on this side of the valley, then it means they'll certainly be coming this way."

Jafan didn't need to dwell on this observation long to realize it was likely.

"Good point, Heff. Balia! Go over and inform the village elders that they should tell everyone to stay in cover, and take defensive positions if they are in the war groups. We don't know if someone is attacking."

Balia saluted and ran to talk to the villagers.

Jafan turned back to the communications specialist.

"Anything, Vancil?"

"Negative, Centopt. Still silence."

"Keep at it."

Jafan nervously glanced up into the hills on the opposite side of the garrison and Keep. His wife was up there with Skywalker. Out of comm-link range. She was leading the ritual to close the quest he had embarked upon here on Voss. Jafan exhaled. He knew that restoration of the Jedi was important. Maybe his children would have a place in that world to come. Especially as emissaries between the traditions of the Voss mystics and the Jedi.

Watching smoke build and curl, he felt some regret. Maybe it would be best if the Voss mystics were entirely left alone. Let the Empire fall apart, he thought. Let me die, and let us become one with the Force and part of history. But maybe it was a blessing that the Voss were largely forgotten over the eons. Better they just be left in peace by every galactic would-by tyrant and other fools with delusions of grandeur. The Jedi themselves could neither stop the Empire nor their own destruction. Hopefully, this will be a lesson that Skywalker will retell to any of his future followers.

Balia returned, performing a quick salute. "The Voss have been informed, Centopt."

Jafan returned the salute perfunctorily, still distracted by the thoughts in his head of what might come after all this. He turned and shouted to the men.

"I'm going to do a quick perimeter check. Heff, Vancil, hold this post and carry on. Inform me immediately if there is any communication or any visible movement from the garrison. Rikka, Desek, Balia, with me!"

Heff and Vancil quickly saluted. "Aye, Centopt." Jafan returned perfunctorily as he double-timed towards the village with the other three troopers in tow.

From there, Jafan took a quick reconnoiter of the village. The young Voss who were parts of the war parties were being called to action. They were visibly nervous. They were country kids, far away from the times of the fearsome warriors of ancient legends. They had some blaster rifles, but mainly relied on atlatl spears for hunting, or their heavy stabbing daggers for livestock slaughter. They had improvised shields which were mostly wood and twine. Only the bits of the shields with re-purposed plasteel would be effective. They would protect their homes as best as they could, but these poor villagers had no means of stopping even modestly armed pirates.

Jafan took care to give advice where he could. How to take positions. How to be still without cramping up. How to be careful not to bunch up together to make an easy target. He watched the Voss hide the elderly and the children in the storehouses which were buried under ground. With this image burning in his mind, he made one last stop to see his own children. He went to the family hut to make sure they were still safe. The troops waited outside while he tended to this very personal moment. He entered the hut and found them both on the floor. Qyr was busying himself with a puzzle counting game with beads attached to strings on a frame. Panna was busy weaving nerff wool, which was her usual chore. They both looked relieved to see their father again.

"I need you both to go to the storehouses. You'll be safer, there."

Qyr didn't quite understand. Panna, older, and more firmly strong in the Force, was more aware. She was frightened.

He embraced them again. They came at him with rapid questions.

"What's happening?"

"Is it pirates? Or Trandoshans again?"

He answered as best he could to put them at ease.

"We don't know. It could be nothing. There might be some accidents that happened and that could be all."

He turned to leave the hut, but stopped when a nagging memory hit the back of his mind. He went to the footlocker which held his personal mementos. He dug through the boxes and old clothes and found what he was looking for. It was wrapped in an officer's old blaster holster in finely finished soft bantha hide. He held the leather holster for a beat as he considered it. He reached down and handed it to Panna.

"Hold on to this. You will figure out how to use it if you must. Don't let anybody know that you have this, okay?" He leaned down and embraced her. As much as he could, he leaned his unmoving mask against the top of her head like a kiss. As the children walked between his troopers toward the storehouse, he took position to lead his squad away. Panna stopped. She turned, her eyes widened with fear nourished by her heightened senses. She called back to him.

"Daddy!"

He turned to look at his daughter.

"May the Force be with you!" she shouted.

"It will, Panna."

Heff turned his head to see the Centopt coming back up the hill. He held up his macrobinoculars as he gestured out towards the fields.

"Just saw something, Top. Looks like something just moved out from the garrison at a high rate of speed. Looks like… hmmm… a TIE fighter. And a freighter vessel. Starting a wide perimeter toward this direction."

Jafan was now certain that something more sinister than a malfunction had happened.

"Bantha-humping mother of Hell! What is going on? Vancil! Try and raise them on the comm-link! Heff, what about the markings? Are they ours?"

Heff's blue face still pressed against the macrobinoculars. He concentrated on following the path of the craft.

"The TIE is definitely one of ours. They're angling this way, too! They're strafing! They're hitting targets on the ground!"

Jafan took in the sight as best as he could from inside his helmet, watching it all unfold on his HUD. They were on a high point here at the edge of the village, but surrounded by rock outcroppings. They had good visuals from here, but also reasonably good cover if hostiles headed this way.

But there was still had no reason why they were being strafed by their own TIE.

"Vancil! For the love of the gods! What's on the scrogging comm-link?!"

Vancil didn't answer. He paused and took a deep breath. He drew his blaster and shot the Centopt in the back.


	12. Chapter 12

Varak was leaning hard on the speeder bike's frame, twisting the throttle as he banked into the turn. Varo, holding on to his back, her Twi'lek tentacles swept backward in the wind, was laughing as she took shots at the terrified Voss who were now running in the nerff grazing fields. She called off the hits as they met their marks.

"Hah! That was a slow one. Ooh, she couldn't dodge!"

Varak banked again to the other side, turning to swoop past a herd of terrified nerffs, snorting and bucking in a stampede.

Varo screamed with delight. They watched an elderly Voss man who was caught by the stampede stepped on several times by the lumbering herd animals. She fired a blast into his chest as they passed him.

"Call that mercy! Ahaahahaa!"

Two other speeders were on the side of the canyon slope leading to the Voss village. They repeated the raid techniques on their ends, spreading terror. Above them, the TIE fighter was floating at a steady rate, strafing toward the village still far ahead. They were sowing chaos, and in so doing, they planned to draw out the patrol of the traitors that were left from the garrison, and ultimately, they planned, the Rebel fool who played Jedi.

Varak laughed at the pathetic slaughter and shouted back to his gunner and lover behind him.

"Weren't you a slave once? How do you enjoy yourself so much?"

She was still finding it hard to catch her breath as she was enjoying the hunt.

"It's because I _was_ a slave. I learned how useless it is to be sentimental! So better them than me! Ahaaahaha!"

::: | ::: | :::

Heff was surprised by the blast. Adrenaline fired through his body, filling his limbs with a swollen, tingling sensation. He quickly surmised that the Centopt had been shot. For the first seconds he swung his head in studious fear, searching for where it came from, dropping the macrobinoculars on the rocky rampart. As he put his hands on his blaster and drew the weapon, his mind cleared. The shot had come from their rear. From one of their own. In the mere heartbeats that passed, his companions had quickly sussed out the situation as well.

"Vancil!" Rikka screamed. Vancil, the communications specialist was standing with his smoking blaster pistol in his hand as Jafan collapsed to the ground. Rikka was holding a long gun, but dropped it to put hands on Vancil. He smashed the other trooper's helmet with a powerful fist, knocking it off. Vancil's terrified face was revealed with a trickle of blood on his lip. He had ducked backward after the blow, stumbling. Rikka leaped at him again, trying to tackle him. But Vancil scrappily turned as his opponent puts his hands on him. Still holding his pistol, he shot Rikka in the chest.

Balia was a stormtrooper from a world that none of them were familiar with. He was humanoid in form, but was in fact, a warrior drone from a hive species. He was also technically a sterile female, as were all the warriors from the hive, but he looked and seemed male enough to be part of the Stormtrooper Corps. He also was Rikka's lover.

Balia screamed as he saw Rikka fall, and immediately pounced on Vancil, and with a savage blow knocked him to the ground. He crushed the smaller stormtrooper's hand holding the pistol with his plasteel heel, tearing off the armor and cutting into him through the stretched black overskin. Vancil's cry was muffled as Balia grabbed his head in a rage, and started to twist in an effort to break his neck.

"stop... don't kill him… don't"

Jafan was wheezing. He was face down on the ground, holding himself up by his forearms. But just barely. Heff and Desek immediately fell to his side. They helped to turn Jafan over as he gasped for air through punctured lungs. Heff had been trained as a medic, and quickly removed the Centopt's helmet. They saw his strained face, gasping.

Desek's helmet was itself frozen in one expression as all stormtrooper helmets were. But the thick trooper's body language was crestfallen, even as the face never changed. He looked to Heff, whose blue face was pursed as he held their Centopt's head in his chest. Jafan had been shot in the back, and the plasma bolt had cut through the organs on his right side, punching through the armor on the front. The overskin had done its best to seal over the hole, providing a minimal airtight seal over the wound in his chest. It kept his lung from collapsing, as it was designed to do. But it could only do much.

Desek continued to plead with his body language. Heff caught his eye while he was cradling Jafan. The Chiss corporal looked at Desek, and with the expression of his helmet-less face, he relayed the condition. He gave a subtle shake to his head to quickly temper any expectations of what was going to happen.

Wheezing, wide-eyed with pain, Jafan addressed what remained of the garrison before him.

"Don't… kill.. Vancil. Why… ask him why… we were… betrayed… ?"

Balia stood over Vancil, who was now bloody and breathing heavily, his face pulsing in agony over his broken hand.

"Why? TELL US WHY?" Screamed Balia.

"Why?" Vancil croaked. "Isn't it obvious? You're traitors! You abandoned the Empire. For these… _toads_! I followed orders to join your defection! To keep an eye on you for the loyal ones. I _followed my orders!_ "

Coughing, Jafan nodded. "Sergeant Kale… he was behind this. The Empire… never forgot."

Blood was running down Jafan's face. His eyes were wide as he gasped.

"Take… Vancil as prisoner. Get… to cover. In the village. You must… must protect… them..." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Almost feeling… better now."

Heff soothed him as best as he could. "You'll be alright, Top. You'll be alright! We'll get you in a bacta tank!"

"Nonsense!" Jafan wheezed. "I'm shot… through. There's no medical tent within... kliks of here. I'm done. I'm dying. I'm not… stupid."

::: | ::: | :::

The freighter was on a smooth course, gently buffeted by the warm currents above at about 40 Imperial meters above Voss. They passed over the terrified village and the fleeing nerff herders who had no means of resistance. Not so much as a single blaster shot came at them. The speeders and the TIE were doing their job, spreading mayhem through the outlying areas of the village, driving most of the Voss towards the village huts for what they hoped would be safety. This would just make them easier to corral.

Jeet Syllba worried about this. Good military strategy, if the Voss had limited resources, would be let the freighter land, unload its cargo of 18 infantry, and then attack them while they were still bunched up. The patrol was down there somewhere, too, and that meant six trained stormtroopers who could be directing these natives. And whatever the pretend Jedi actually was, he needn't be underestimated. Even if he was a charlatan, he was clever enough to bait Vader and the Emperor into their deaths. Which was also not to mention he had something to do with the deaths of Jabba and Boba Fett. That last detail made Syllba's fellow bounty hunters eager to see Skywalker's head sealed in durallium1 and mounted as a trophy.

Syllba woke up from his daydreams of paydays and cursed himself again. He knew he was out of the bounty hunting game for too long. He was patched into Death Watch on Ankhural as a young man, and he indulged himself in the old ways and the old code: war, aggression, and taking what he needed by might. The Empire had been profitable for bounty hunting, and he'd grown lazy. He'd forced extreme discipline upon himself these last two months to hone his body and mind back into warrior shape. So far, he'd felt himself getting back into the old ways, but he knew his tendencies toward lethargy still clouded his mind.

Before they took off, he suggested that the Marauders not immediately pour out of the cargo bay when it landed. Instead, he helped them devise a ruse to draw out whatever Voss resistance there may be.

The freighter lowered down above the very center of the village, shaking severely as the gravity and wind fought the whining repulsors, culminating in landing with a violent bang. The cargo door burst open, and the ramp lurched downward, smacking the ground with a metal screech and an explosion of dust.

Two stormtroopers moved forward and walked swiftly but stiffly out of the open bay as best as they could manage. They seemed to have difficulty. They heel-toed forward, their arms dangling loosely at their sides. They turned this way and that, not knowing exactly where to go. Suddenly, a group of Voss boys came out of the hiding near the huts, tossing spears at the troopers that were mostly ineffective on the armor. They did cause one trooper to lose balance and fall to his side, now unable to right himself. A blaster rifle was among the Voss as well, and Syllba saw the person (or toad) manning it fire it and light up the other stormtrooper, whose body fell apart in a burst of metal shards and bouncing servos.

Intan grinned behind his helmet. He turned to Syllba at the back of his transport. "Such a good idea. Putting two of those droids in armor and sending them out first. Well, these toads showed where they are. Let's go kill them, shall we, Marauders?"

The group of former stormtroopers turned mercenaries roared a war cry as they sprang forth. More than a dozen troopers in motley, modified stormtrooper armor ran out of the cargo ship led by Intan. With swift and well-rehearsed infantry tactics, they pressed forward and began killing the villagers mounting the resistance. Syllba coolly walked out behind them. He took very little interest watching the troopers joyfully kick down the hut doors and wooden nerff carts, and shoot Voss after Voss. The goal here was to terrify the populace, taking the valuable ones as slaves if they could.

He knew the hotheads would shoot too many of the young boys they were confronted with, which was inefficient, as the young ones were worth money. Only the very oldest or the most stubborn were useless and best used as cannon fodder. But the Imperial Stormtroopers were trained for aggression, and these fools made for solid mercenaries, but would never be more than middling bounty hunters or slavers, anyway. They took a long time to be convinced to use the protocol droids as bait, as they only were worried about the value of the droids. It took some convincing by Syllba that it was of far greater value to lose a couple of droids to draw out resistance and take the village as quickly as possible rather than killing everyone outright. The Empire had not trained stormtroopers to have subtle minds. But they'd serve their purpose well enough.

Syllba held a heavy case in his right hand and a datapad in his left. He set down the case on the village dirt. The sides folded down, and interior levers turned, interweaving platters unspun and spread themselves open; cogs swiveled out and storage trays folded upward to reveal their contents. Three miniature probe droids floated out of resting charging bays. He turned the holographic controls from the data pad, and the probes came to life with lights and electronic chirps. He switched them to "hunt" mode, and they instantly took off over the village. They were filled with every piece of data known about the Skywalker bounty: bits of recovered DNA, descriptions of his height, sound, and relative weight. They instantly began scouring the huts with gamma rays, micro-sniffers, sonar, and infra-red scans, spreading out to the hills beyond.

There was a roar as the TIE fighter made a slow pass overhead. Kale was calmly aiming and taking shots at wherever he saw Voss that were expendable or offering resistance. They still hoped to flush out what remained of the patrol as quickly as possible. The tauntauns were already seen fleeing in panic over the hills. That meant the patrol was here, on foot, and they were dead. Or about to be.

That would be the problem for the Marauders, however, not Syllba. One of the probes had chimed that it had found possible tracks leading up into the mountainside. Skywalker was very likely up there in a mystic temple. For the Mandalorians, for the Hutts, and the for the promise of Imperial lucre, Syllba had his target to hunt.

He spoke in the comm-link to Intan as well as Kale, who was overseeing operations from above in the TIE.

"I've got a track on Skywalker now. I'm going after him. I'll set the other two probes to help out your grunts on the ground."

He fired up his flightpack. The repulsors came alive, severely vibrating his bones in a way that takes a great deal of conditioning to get used to. Pushing off from the ground, he fired the rockets to propel him in the direction towards the probe droid's beacon. He knew he was out of perfect conditioning for this, and the vibrations would cause extreme pain the longer he flew, but it was necessary. He could repair this older pack, but it would cost almost as much as a new one, and it wasn't _that_ bad, he told himself. Gritting his teeth behind his helmet, he resigned, no, it wouldn't be _that_ bad if I were 20 years younger. But, he told himself, get this done with, he could retire to Zeltros or a penthouse on Nar Shaddaa.

Heading toward the hills, he could see the path winding between the trees. This must be where the mystics had led him. This was it. Syllba was starting to feel the thrill of reaping the harvest of his most lucrative bounty yet.

::: | ::: | :::

Luke wasn't sure how, but he was cold. Still in his Tatooine farmer's tunic, he shivered and held his arms to his side. He told himself this wasn't real, but an illusion projected into his brain by the Force. But it was real enough as far as all his senses were concerned.

The landscape had changed. It was flat and dry like his desert childhood home, but there seemed to be dark, purplish colors in the sky. He walked through a cold wind that bowled him over. He could still see Ben, his father, and Yoda's Force presence there, but they were sliding along above the ground in ghostly form, not quite walking, through the landscape.

Anakin spoke to him. "Press forward, Luke, you will find the entrance to the Dark Side's realm. You must prepare yourself.

"The entity here has studied the Sith ways of anchoring to the physical world. He has long sought to make an entrance and a hold here. Do not let it kill you."

Luke looked up at Anakin with shock. "Kill me? I didn't know that was an option here."

Ben soothed his nerves. "That is why the Voss mystic is anchoring you while you are in the trance. You will be pulled out of the Force if the entity attempts to overwhelm you. Be on your guard, and you face no danger."

A voice that Luke had heard in the chambers under the castle echoed now in his mind. He first heard the familiar laughter echo.

"Skywalker! Son of Skywalker. How delightful you've come back to me. You will serve me well."

A tall man in a long, purple-to-black hooded cloak emerged into view. The ethereal glow gave away that he was from within the Force itself. Skywalker could see a bald head in the cloak, wearing a face with a twisted expression, much like he'd seen on Palpatine during the Force Lightning attack. The man had a greenish hue to his skin, and eyes which were hid behind dark rings around them. He pulled down a mask over his face that was reminiscent of a metal, decorative skull.

Luke was terrified. But he kept an outward calm.

"Have we met?"

"In a way." The voice was solid and booming, but completely unhurried. "I came to know your father very well."

"My father was Anakin Skywalker. Vader was a corrupted version of the man he was."

"Ah. In fact, he was one of the great ones."

The entity looked over the assembled Jedi Force ghosts besides Luke.

"Not impressed, really. Are you so chafed, little ghosts, that you must piggyback along to watch me harvest this young Jedi pup like I did so many before?"

Anakin's ghostly body was looking darker, pained, and twisted. Luke began to see a darkness and puffiness around his father's eyes as passion began to brew. For the first time, he truly saw the seeds of what must have become Vader.

"Darth Bane." Anakin hissed. "I sought power through you. I sought your knowledge. Like you, I sought to end this destructive nonsense. But you only gave me more darkness."

Bane laughed. The ancient Sith entity raised his hands and almost effortlessly brought forth a shower of Force Lightning on Luke.

Luke was stunned. It hurt! Here in the Force, where they were not in the physical world, he felt it truly hurt! He felt the Force swelling inside himself and instinctively struck back. Without knowing how, he directed a blast of Force lightning back at Bane, stopping him momentarily. There was more booming laughter.

"You learn well, young Skywalker! You feel the Force! You feel the _potential_ of your rage! Reach out and _strike me._ "

Luke centered himself as best as he could, even as he felt his flesh sting, finding himself gasping for breath. He knew this part very well. He'd seen the Dark Side and even sampled its power. But he wouldn't let it dominate him.

Yoda's ghostly form sat beside Luke. Without meeting his eyes, Yoda began meditating. Bane raged again, but this time the lightning fell to no effect.

"Luke!" It was the voice of Tylo the mystic, who was anchoring him in the physical world back on Voss. "I am here. And I am lending you my strength as well."

Obi-Wan and Anakin both sat beside Luke now. Again, they were quiet and centered as Bane raged. Slowly, they each could feel that Bane was being pushed backward. Slowly, but inextricably, the Sith was being constrained and pushed back through into the Darkness.

Luke was determined to remain centered, mindful of the lessons he had learned at a great price. Yoda had told him when he was calm, he would know the Light from the Dark. Here, now, he could feel himself earning the price of that wisdom.

::: | ::: | ::::

The six members of the patrol stumbled down to the battle in the village; one dead, one dying, and one battered and shackled as a prisoner. Desek carried Jafan in his arms. Balia carried the lifeless body of Rikka on his shoulders. Heff led the way with the bruised Vancil, his hands roughly tied together and leashed to a tether of duracord, forced to walk in front. They stumbled down the slope, falling into despair as they could see the TIE overhead was targeting and killing the villagers at will. There were stormtroopers down there, but they were wearing mixed armor pieces with green and red pinstriping. They were running and shouting, hitting the Voss, kicking them, and occasionally shooting them. They were making them cower, driving them together in the center of the village. Most Voss now were on their knees with their hands on the tops of their heads.

Heff held up his hands to his companions, crouching behind a rock just above the scene unfolding less than 30 meters down the slope.

"We have to stop here. There's nothing we can do to help them."

He dove behind the closest set of rocks. They had a close up view of the carnage. His mind exploded with thoughts as he aimed Rikka's long rifle. He raced through every possible course of action. If he shot, the mercenaries would see where it was coming from, and they would come for him. How many could he kill then? How could he stop them? Could they surrender? Should they die in a last stand? Or somehow get to safety?

"They're taking the Voss alive. Probably as slaves," Heff muttered. "It's not ideal, but they won't all die."

Desek grumbled. He was angry. And his instincts were for taking action. But he trusted Heff as the smartest trooper he knew.

They saw the TIE fighter above them was coming to a slow hover. A voice spoke out from a crowd-control loudspeaker. He regrettably recognized it as their former Master Sergeant.

"Villagers of Voss, throw down your arms, and you will not be harmed. You have been ordered to stand down by the authority of the Empire. The garrison has officially taken control of this village."

Heff's mind was racing. They were swiftly running out of options. If he could get a clear head shot on Kale, he'd have some kind of satisfaction before his own death. But Kale was floating above them in a fighter, essentially unreachable. And whoever these troopers were who were acting as Kale's troops were clearly not a standard Imperial unit.

Well played, Kale, Heff thought, bitterly. Very well played indeed. If the Empire had followed standard protocol and sent an official reinforcement, complete with Imperial orders for landing parties, scouts, and chain of command, surely there would have been an arrogant demand to surrender the garrison. They had prepared for that, and would have evacuated instantly if that were the situation. What they had not planned on, however, was a group of mercenaries acting with the authority of Imperial codes, and utilizing Imperial gear. Pirates, Trandoshans, even a fleet of IG assassin droids could not have got past the deflector shield. But Kale, with Vancil's help, could do.

There was very little noise within the remaining platoon now. Jafan was still gasping, rattling wetly as he did so. Desek had a field cloth he used with his canteen to wet Jafan's face, giving him some drops of water the dying man was grateful for.

There was a sound of quiet sobbing as Balia sat, cradling Rikka's lifeless body. One trooper holding another. Their own physical intimacy separated by their plastoid armor in one world, and the veil of death for the other.

Vancil shuffled his feet. He sat uncomfortably with his hands bound behind him, and his movement caused rocks and rubble to roll slowly down the hill. Desek turned and hissed at him, holding up a fist. Vancil's face was terrified. He pulled up his knees to his chest to show he was moving as little as possible. His smashed right hand was now swelling grotesquely and causing him debilitating pain.

They watched as the TIE fighter gently floated down. It pushed up dust as it maneuvered itself into landing next to the crowd of beaten, frightened Voss.

Heff re-adjusted the sights on the long gun. This was his chance. He'd take off Kale's head once it emerged from the TIE and then shortly afterward, his part of the cosmic story would end.

He was never one for Chiss lore. He found the temples to be nothing but silly superstitions. But now he found himself finding faith in the talisman he kept on his neck. He remembered the stories of the elders. He knew they told stories of those who would "die well" and have a story worth telling in the living world, which would keep them noble in the afterlife and halls of ice. Now at last he understood the meaning of that, and admitted it had some appeal.

His thoughts turned to the Jedi, and he began to doubt his current plan. No, the Voss were helpless now. He and the patrol could do nothing but die if he engaged the mercenaries here. But they could hide and somehow find the Jedi. Enroll his help somehow. They knew that they needed to keep him safe. He calculated it might be better to hold off on killing Kale, as much as the thought delighted him. It might be better to run. To find the Jedi. And come back with more of a fighting chance.

As he came to this realization, a shrieking sound came from behind him. He turned to look to see a small probe droid, no larger than one of Desek's fists, that was floating behind them with a pulsing light and a siren. Balia lifted a hand with a blaster pistol and quickly scrapped it.

But it was too late. Already, several of the mercenaries down below had begun running toward the hill, yelling, as they pointed their blasters up at them. Heff swore. He re-adjusted the long gun, moving it off the landing TIE and aimed downward. He killed the first trooper trooper that was mounting the hill and heading his way. Desek and Balia fired and immediately hit the second. Now realizing that they had a more substantial fight on their hands, the rest of the mercenaries took cover.

The TIE stopped landing and floated much closer. It now set down nearly at the base of the slope just meters away. The relentless cloud of dust from the TIE's landing overtook their rocky cover, and the pinned patrol now could see nothing. Heff continued to pray and swear in intermittent rhythm. He pulled his blaster pistol from its holster and re-adjusted his helmet back on his head, sucking on the re-breather. to get fresh air and relying on the HUD to provide visuals of his surroundings. Desek placed Jafan's helmet back on his head as well, allowing the dying man to breathe.

Vancil was wheezing and gasping without his helmet in the rising dust. Good, Heff thought. I hope you choke.

More sounds came up. The whining repulsors of speeder bikes were heard coming up behind them. Through the HUD, Heff could only see the barest outline of movement, but he saw that the bikes had mounted up the path much faster than he could track, and they were now turning around and facing them. Surrounded. Well, Heff, thought: that's that.

Kale's unmistakable voice was heard now. No longer through the TIE loudspeaker, but through a trooper helmet itself. He was mounting the hill behind the mercenary troopers.

"Is that the rest of the garrison? Take them alive! Stun them! Stun them only! They are my prisoners!"

Heff was surprised at how calm he felt as he was resigned that this was likely the end. He yanked the gagging Vancil to his feet. Desek and Balia stood as well, and walked behind him. Heff twisted the ropes and put Vancil in front of himself with his pistol directly pointed into Vancil's neck. He walked forward on the path, using Vancil as a shield.

"Kale? Is that you? Listen! We have your mole! We have Vancil. Let us go, or we'll kill him!"

The dust cleared enough. Heff could see Kale in his gleaming armor standing there along with six of the mercenaries. Two biker troops were also now on the hill flanking him on either side. He could see the two mercs they killed were crumpled over on the side of the path. Heff pushed Vancil forward, moving sideways.

"I have a better idea" Kale said. He pointed his blaster and shot Vancil in the chest. The trooper emitted a last wheeze and fell dead at Heff's feet, leaving a burst of burnt blood on the front of his armor. Surprised for a moment, the Chiss corporal decided to at least die well and aimed his blaster at Kale. Before he could pull the trigger, though, his body was riveted by stun shot after stun shot. He fell down unconscious in a flop. An experience that was immediately repeated with Desek and Balia.

Kale calmly marched up the slope, surveying the bodies at his feet. He took delight in seeing the one body with the orange chevron of rank, still squirming, as it had not yet died.

::: | ::: | :::

Jafan now was the last member of the platoon not dead or unconscious. And his body was very near crossing that border as well. He didn't understand what was happening at first as he found himself being carried away by Desek. Ah, reliable Desek. His own limbs were numb, and his body was colder than he ever felt. The overskin's system was now starting to fail, as it could not heal itself where it had been punctured by the blaster shot, nor stop his hemorrhaging with seals and pressure anymore. His body was rapidly losing heat as the life slipped away.

When the TIE fighter had kicked up the dust, Desek had re-fitted his helmet back on him, and the re-breather. forced its way into his mouth. It helped fill him with oxygen, but his body no longer was able to absorb much of it.

In the echoing, artificial noise in the helmet, he watched the events unfold around him, projected in greenish, 3-D holoview. He felt a strange sense of calm now. He'd worn this helmet with an unchanging expression for more than 20 years now. He'd watched it at night at his bedside, seeming to grin at him like a demon that kept Jafan as his pet. The helmet almost seemed mocking, laughing, daring him to leave it behind. They were chained together. And now, like Jafan had speculated so many times before, he would die inside his armor, his head inside the helm. The HUD would be the last thing he would see.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing now. In his mind, he reached out through the Force. He felt the people around him. Heff, Desek, and Balia were still alive, but they were immobilized. He reached out and felt Tylo. She was absorbed in a trance, and he knew he couldn't reach her. He found Skywalker, deep in the Force. He saw him sitting on the ground, meditating before a moiling dark storm. Skywalker turned and seemed to recognize him, however briefly. Jafan nodded to his master. Skywalker seemed disturbed, as though he was shocked to see Jafan there.

He had one last task. He reached out with every sense of the Force he had and found his children, Qyr and Panna. They were huddling in the storehouse in fear. They gasped and opened their eyes as they felt him through the Force. He gave them his last instructions. Panna could see him in her mind's eye, and could see her father's blue, ethereal glow around a ghostly form like his body. She squeezed the holster her father had given her, holding it to herself like a container that held his soul. She nodded to him one last time, and found her eyes had grown damp.

Jafan was now still. He fell into the Force and was at peace.

Kale trod steadily up to the gasping body on the ground. He grinned behind his helmet, savoring the sight of Jafan broken like this. He took aim with his blaster and shot the Centopt in the head to finish it once and for all.

::: | ::: | :::

Tylo had been still. She was deep in a trance, focused in body and mind deep in the _Waskaja._ Suddenly, her body felt a jolt like she had been thrown into a wall by a drunken wookie. Jafan was dead. The connection they had through the Force was instantly severed. She fell from the Force, screaming.

Her mind went red with shock as a reverberation through the Force also severed her connection to Skywalker. She heaved, lifting herself from the floor of the cave, fully awake. Skywalker was there, in a trance and seated, his eyes opaque as he had fallen into the Force. But she was no longer connected to him. He was there on his own. Trapped in the Dark Side.

1 **Durallium:** an alloy that was particularly good at preserving and sealing flesh in a frozen way. A popular way for the patrons of the galaxy to preserve and mount the heads of their enemies. Or, depending on the culture, mummify their venerated dead.


	13. Chapter 13

Jeet Syllba was floating adjacent to the mountain, carefully following the bobbing probe droid. The probe was tracking the DNA traces of the phony Jedi which were detectable on the path below. Syllba himself was scanning for any kind of an outcropping from which a defense might be mounted. Scans for snipers or other hidden weapons had so far returned negative. He expected the Jedi would be up here with the mystics, and ideally completely unaware of the slaughter of the garrison and the village below.

The repulsorlift vibrations from his flightpack were already putting his bones into a higher level of agony when he received a lucky break. A terrified scream came from somewhere in the mountain. That was it. His helmet's HUD pinpointed the rift in the rock whence it came. The location of the scream was near the summit of the mountain, directly facing Vader's Keep, over the sloping valley and the Voss village below them. That had to be where the mystics were. And Skywalker should be there.

He landed several meters down from the outcropping. The goal was to keep his approach as quiet as possible, maintaining the advantage of surprise. He'd find out what prompted that woman's scream soon enough.

After landing, his body was no longer rattling, but was again under gravity's oppressive squeeze. He was shocked at the excruciating pain the repulsorlifts caused him these days. This was greatly exacerbated by letting his fitness slide this past decade. Pausing to catch his breath, he pulled out three vials from his arm pouch, and opened a panel in his right leg armor. He injected himself with the highest grade stims he could procure; vial after vial were jabbed into the meat. They were for pain endurance, increased energy, and enhancement in mental and muscle performance.

His whole body was feeling warm with the rush of the injections. He discarded the vials on the path and resealed the armor. This probably also meant his heart would be lucky to even last two years after today. But who cares? He'd soon have all the money he'd ever need. He'd go to the best vat farm in the galaxy and have them swap in a new pink heart, freshly cloned. He'd swap out any organs he needed as a matter of fact. And maybe some he didn't, just because he could. All for the head of one Jedi impostor. This would be the score of a lifetime.

 _And what a lifetime I will have!_ The stims hit his central nervous system. There was no pain. Everything was perfect. His body was alive more than it had ever been. Each limb was as strong as a ronto's neck.

He was sweating. His heart sped up and time seemed to slow down. He remained motionless as he adjusted to this heightened awareness, crouching behind a grove of trees just off the trail. He let his ears take in the sounds around him, acclimating his mind to the environment of the mountain. He listened carefully for anything contrasting itself to natural noises. He could hear nothing that betrayed a living being except for the booming of his blood in his own head. The wind continually whistled, shaking the leaves in the trees. Occasionally, in the distance, there was the call of a bird looking for a mate.

Slowly, he worked his way forward, searching the rocks high and low for any visual movement at all.

There was another scream that came from the cave. It was followed by a series of desperate sobs. This was very strange. But he wouldn't solve the mystery of that scream until he was standing over the bodies, regardless. He waited for more sounds, but could hear nothing else. At least he was more than sure he was on the right path.

The probe floated several meters in the air, scanning the ground. It was doing a detailed search in 10 meter-square sections. Syllba was taking no chances. He was intent on covering every angle for a possible ambush by any of the patrol possibly still guarding the bounty. The probe sent chimes into his helmet as it passed over and over the ground near the summit. Readouts came up for searches for any part of Skywalker himself, or any signs of a defense that was lying in wait.

…searching… grid 100939OWikdO… nothing found…

…searching… grid 101039OWikdO… possible movement…

…searching… grid 101139OWikdO… nothing found…

…searching… grid 101239OWikdO… DNA POSITIVE…

…searching… grid 101339OWikdO… nothing found…

…searching… RETURNING grid 101109OWikdO… possible movement…

This was infuriating. The readouts kept finding confirmation of Skywalker's DNA, which was a happy enough circumstance. But it couldn't verify if there was movement elsewhere in the grid. It seemed to think so. Thus, it kept returning to the same square in the search pattern, unable to verify if it was an ambusher, or a beetle, or just the wind. Syllba was now grinding his teeth. This is what you get with the cheaper model of these probe droids. Every damn upgrade from Czerka Industries was unreliable since the Empire had their directors executed.

He could see the grid that the probe was curious about. The outline was drawn on the grid's borders as he saw it through the HUD. It was on the trail dead ahead, past the treeline, encompassing mostly bare ground without any cover.

The stims were still making his head as light as if it were swollen with a noble gas. He was feeling delightfully invincible. There was no pain in his bones any more. He remembered the training he had as a young Mandalorian warrior, imitating the forest nexu. Moving like a shadow, he was a predator now. Damn the clever gadgets he had. He was stalking his prey. He would take what was his.

Slowly, still, while his heart was beating to a quick-march cadence, he ascended the trail. He moved as silently as possible, barely brushing the branches of trees and tall grass obscuring his path. The grid-point the probe kept itself curious about was still just ahead. Syllba could see nothing that looked suspicious. That also was worrisome. He still assumed that it was likely the case that the touchy probe was just pinging off some tiny creature digging a hole in the soil.

The trail was jutted up against a rock wall on the left, and the ground gradually sloped more than a dozen meters to the edge of the cliff just on his right. In such a narrow path, and needing his arms and hands for balance, he slung his bullpup blaster rifle over his shoulder, and removed his pistol from its holster. He held the weapon with his right hand, allowing him to extend his arms for balance as he traversed the sloping rocks, crouching to keep his profile low.

He considered tossing a grenade into the cave once he was closer. But that would be amateur. While it would likely do a nice job of turning anyone within the cave to tenderized meat, he had no knowledge of the layout inside. It wasn't guaranteed to kill them all. That would give anyone left inside a heads-up to brace for defense, and he'd then lose the element of surprise. Also, he'd lose the ability to possibly interrogate the inhabitants. So he'd take his time, assess the target, and do this correctly. He pulled out his datapad and sent commands to the probe to look into the cave and give him a visual readout of what defenses might be within. The probe itself was staying as much as possible out of sight, keeping far to the left of the trail while constantly scanning for any movement or tech activity.

 _Slowly._ He repeated it to himself multiple times in his mind: _slowly._ The HUD still read out the probe's constant searching. There was still nothing detected up here. He fully expected if the patrol were anywhere near that they'd have comm-gear — or their own probes — or shield units. But it seemed more likely now, yet improbably, the pretend Jedi and the mystics had come up here with the cloth on their backs. Alone. The fools.

Syllba gently placed a boot next to the area on the grid the probe could not make sense of. He let it hold his weight. He peered through his pistol sights, carefully scanning the ground and landscape. He looked through the sites to the wall and the ridge above it. _Nothing._ To his right across the bare ground to the edge of the mountainside. _Nothing._

He felt a rush of pleasure. His head was so light, and his heartbeat so fast, he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. The stim also made his bite frighteningly more strong than he expected. And now he tasted blood.

He walked on. Just as he passed the grid, he heard a shuffling sound. He swung his head to see the ground itself improbably come alive. He considered that the stims were playing tricks with his mind. Then he snapped his thoughts together as the loose, sandy dirt fell away from a reptilian face that was hissing. It was a juvenile Trandoshan with reddish scales, wearing a long, white tunic. It held a wooden spear with an obsidian shard fashioned at one end. No metal to set off the probe.

The Trandoshan bolted the spear at Syllba before he could react. His Mandalorian chest armor plate absorbed the blow without losing any of its integrity, but he was instantly knocked off balance.

Seeing that the spear couldn't directly cut through the armor, Drrsala dropped it. Snarling, he leapt at his foe, aiming low. Sharp claws dug into the durafiber weave boots, tearing into them, ensnaring Syllba's left foot, and toppling him against the rock wall on the side of the trail.

Syllba's chemically-enhanced reflexes were at the top of their game. He swung his blaster pistol up immediately, only missing a direct hit because of the Trandoshan's anticipation. The creature arrested the swing of Syllba's right arm with a clawed left hand. The shot only grazed its side.

The Mandalorian cursed himself as he realized he was now in a fight he was in danger of losing very quickly. He had anticipated any number of scenarios facing him: A fake Jedi, cowering Voss primitives, or trained stormtroopers. A Trandoshan hunter that could lower its respiratory rate and hide in loose sand wasn't one of them. The creature was small, which was lucky, because the Trandoshans were fast and strong in a deadly combination. Had it been fully grown, it likely would have severed his ankle with its grasp. It had already rendered his firepower moot by grasping his weapon hand, now crushing it until Syllba cried out in pain and the pistol fell to the ground. The Trandoshan was dangerously close enough to open his armor or remove his helmet, after which it would be a simple matter for the reptilian to thrash his flesh into ribbons.

Syllba was in a defensive position with his back against the rock wall; savage claws kept striking at his limbs, and only the armor plates prevented grievous wounding.

However, Syllba's combat habits were long ago honed by his rough training on Ankhural. He expertly used the Trandoshan's fierce strength against itself. In the hand-to-hand struggle, Syllba twisted, falling backward, and in doing so, he let his opponent throw his weight forward in a lunge, throwing him off balance and falling into the wall himself.

Drrsala toppled downward, still grasping onto Syllba who twisted himself to get on top. Syllba had gained the advantage even with his right hand completely useless under Drrsala's adamant grip. He was above the Trandoshan now, his right hand still unusable, but his left hand steadying himself against the brick wall as his knees dug into Drrsala's chest.

From underneath, the claws on Drrsala's feet tore into the Mandalorian armor, scraping the finish and getting stuck in the padding. Now it was a desperate struggle as he held the Mandalorian's wrist, tearing desperately at the body above him with his clawed feet.

Syllba steadied himself, pushed himself back upright, and stomped down with his boots. It wasn't elegant, but it was effective. His plasteel heel was a fierce weapon. His first blow hit the reptile in the face. The second landed directly in its ribs. He aimed hard for Drrsala's collarbone, knowing that it could be a suffocating, deadly injury for a Trandoshan if done correctly. By gaining an advantage by getting on top of his opponent, Syllba also exposed the gaps in his armor that were visible from underneath.

Years of relentless Mandalorian training could not make up for the sheer animal swiftness of the Trandoshan. As Syllba leaned on the rock wall and drew back his foot for another blow, Drrsala had grabbed back hold of his staff-spear with the claws on his feet, passing it to his free right hand. He fired it upward in a singular, pointed motion.

A burst of light exploded in Syllba's mind. The staff was thrust expertly just under where the joints met in his chest armor's left side, entering his body under the gap between his hip and his breast plate, easily penetrating the soft padding which allowed for movement. He gasped in shock, not even aware of how he was hit nor even where. He found himself falling backward, falling against the rock wall and sliding down, his blood spilling out over his legs in warm gushes. As he crumpled to the ground, the spear stuck out from his torso's flank like a planted flag.

 _Stupid!_ he screamed in his mind. _Stupid, stupid! Overconfident!_ He heard the loud hissing of the Trandoshan. It had released all of its grasps, letting Syllba fall, and had jolted itself back upright. Drrsala grabbed hold of the spear and pulled it out of the body of his prey. Syllba howled in pain, watching the world explode in light, and then turn black.

A body suffering such a severe wound might be crumpled up and dying. However, Syllba's heart was pumping mechanically, and the brain stims were firing his neurons enough to keep him awake. He gasped and opened his eyes again. Through his HUD, he saw Drrsala above him, that reptilian face in a frozen singular expression not unlike a smile; the creature's single, long, white tunic rippling in the wind, as he heaved back the staff above his own head to deal a killing thrust of the spear to the Mandalorian's neck.

Training once again took over in Syllba's mind. Last second countermeasures were recalled with nearly pure muscle memory. Syllba pointed his left hand and fired a wrist rocket directly into his opponent.

Drrsala howled with the explosion that knocked him back, dropping the spear; he was burning, snarling, and his arms were flailing. Still swinging at the flames, he toppled off the side of the path, tumbled on the slope, and disappeared over the cliff.

And just like that, the fight was over. Syllba had won. He rolled slowly and painfully to his side, grunting. He lifted himself to his knees. He gasped and removed his helmet, immediately vomiting into the dirt.

The ground wouldn't stop its spinning, seemingly pushing and pulling his body in a vertiginous ride. He gasped, lifting his gloved hands to run over the sweat on his head and in his beard. He had temporarily forgotten the puncture wound. As if in a dream, and watching it happen to someone else, he looked down at his damaged body, observing the blood pouring out with every heartbeat. He cursed and pulled out a field kit from a leg pouch. In a swift, rehearsed movement, he unlocked his armor chest plate and tossed it to the ground. He pulled at his environmental suit, exposing the skin and the gash. He covered the bleeding wound with bacta spray foam that instantly congealed. If it burned, he could not feel it. He knew he was numbed either through his shock or the stims' effects, or both.

He rose up and slowly pulled his overskin environmental suit back closed. He clasped his armor pieces together again. As the armor came together, the machined parts of each piece slid smartly into its counterpart in a smooth, autonomous motion, culminating in a click as they sealed back together, completely indifferent to the streaks of blood and dirt across the surface. He found his pistol on the ground and checked the action of the slide. He'd only got of a single plasma bolt. He strapped back on his flightpack and re-slung the rifle, finally placing his helmet back on his head.

He knew this reprieve was temporary. The wound was still in danger, and his body was just pouring blood internally now. He'd be dead in six hours if he didn't get help. But it didn't matter.

 _Get the head of Skywalker!_ This thought burned in his mind. He stumbled forward, the second wind from the stims kicking in, propelling him onward.

 _Get the head of Skywalker!_ He pushed himself forward with fury. Feeling dizzy now, he tumbled again and fell to his knees. He realized his armor was slippery with his own blood. He cursed the Trandoshan race. He vowed he'd live on reptile soup for a year when he got out of this.

 _Get the head of Skywalker!_ The thought echoed and again he rose to his feet, letting the nausea pass. The bloody spear was lying in the dirt. He picked it up and used it to lean on. He needed a moment, he swore, just a moment to get himself righted and back to fighting shape.

He pushed doubts out of his head. _Should have had an apprentice! Should have offered the Marauders a bigger share and brought them with._ The Mandalorian way was victory to the strongest. Woe to the weak. Pity them, but have no mercy.

 _Get the head of Skywalker!_

He drove himself forward. The stims' effects were now cresting. He could feel no pain at all. Sure, he was lightheaded and woozy, but he was steadfast in his mission. No doubts. No backing out now. It was only 20 or 30 meters of a steep climb. He contemplated turning on the repulsor liftpack. _Weakness!_ He despised himself for even considering it. Although truthfully he also dreaded the pain the repulsors would reverberate through his wounded body.

He took hold of the rocks and began to climb. Sheer hatred and a lust for riches now were his only sensations. They would sing of him, for sure, in the cantinas from Dantooine to Ord Mandell.

 _Get the head of Skywalker!_

::: | ::: | ::::

Something was wrong. Even here in the Force, beyond the physical realm, Luke could sense that something had happened. He could no longer feel Tylo's anchor to the solid world of Voss. He continued to meditate, feeling the presence of Anakin, Ben, and Yoda, all bolstering his strength. The Sith spirit that Vader had communed with was still here. But it was constrained, walled off, and being pushed back to the boundaries of the Dark Side.

Now without an anchor, Luke felt a solidity slipping away from him. Among the spirits of the Force, there was a divide between the living and the dead. Luke was now just a projection of his living self, but no more connected to the physical realm than any of the spirits around him.

He had seen Jafan for a moment, somehow, blinking in the Force, standing before him and giving him a knowing nod and a wink. He knew then that something had happened. The garrison was in trouble. The Voss were being attacked. Jafan the Centopt was dead. That must have pulled Tylo away, as they had shared a strong bond through the Force.

The Sith entity, calling himself "Bane," laughed hollowly. He sensed it as well.

"Do you feel that, Son of Skywalker? You have been abandoned here. You do not have the advantage you thought you would, do you? This is the way of things. Your peace — your Jedi peacekeepers — all fell. Because they were a lie."

Bane was no longer constrained. He seemed to walk forward effortlessly, his whorling black visage shimmering within the Force itself. Luke found he could not feel Ben and the others as strongly as he could just moments ago.

The Force entities of Anakin, Ben, and Yoda were unmoving. They were still sitting, cross legged, in meditation positions, but their visages were blurred to him. Their souls glowed with ethereal light, but Luke could no longer hear them or distinguish them. Bane's power was pushing back now, pushing the Jedi's forms away from him. He was indeed anchored strongly to the Keep, and the mystics' remnants there. His form paced back and forth in the light on the floor, strobing from solid to transparent with the Force.

Luke was standing now. No longer on the dirty, windswept surface of Tatooine. He was in a ship that was clean, bright, and antiseptic. He looked around the room, recognizing the minimalist Imperial finish; the military gray, and distinctively knurled latches of polished metal on all the bulkheads. There were curved, clear transparent panels around him on all sides. He was in a command Star Destroyer. He stood on an observation platform overlooking a vast debris field stretching at the intercourse of two fleets. There was a massive gas planet to his starboard side, pulsing with clouds across its surface. A giant star loomed above them all, but yet still several million kilometers away, fire and light tumbling across its surface, dwarfing the assemblage below.

Sirens burst into life as the Imperial fleet began a final descent toward the Rebels. _His_ Imperial fleet. He felt an electric thrill at knowing that. He looked at his hands. No longer was he wearing the simple farmer's tunic. He wore interlaced black armor that was composed of tiny plasteel scales, and polished to an immaculate shine, expensively fitted to his body.

Completely immersed in this shimmering Force dream, there was an undeniable rush of power coursing through this body. The Star Destroyers opened their launch bays. Curved attack waves of TIE fighters and TIE interceptors bolted from their pens. He was connected to all of them. He could sense every pilot's soul like he was feeling every hair along his arms. Reaching out and rippling a muscle even gently, he could direct their attacks. The bend of one finger reverberated through the fleet, and hundreds of ships wheeled in a synchronized dance. Puffs of fire dotted nearly empty space as the Imperials burned through the motley Rebel fleet, cutting the Viscount cruisers in half. The Calamari ships went unlit, their armored exteriors sparkled with reflecting starlight, turning over and over, tumbling upward to fall into the sun.

He now traversed a vast courtyard. A pattern of alternating shaded dark and light squares of Ilum granite extended the length of a hallway that ended at a pair of doors which were the size of a thumbnail at their distance. Trees lined the entire path, resting in pots which hovered above the polished tile floor; a forest planned with opulent precision. They dripped green and red leaves as he crossed the vast courtyard solely by himself. His black armor was so polished that it glinted blindingly in the corner of his eyes, reflecting the light coming from the curved glass domes hundreds of meters above him. He came at last to the doors and opened them to a balcony. He was washed with a roar of millions of voices.

Mon Mothma and General Dodonna were led in chains. The jeering crowds watched from the walkways around the palace, across the slums for multiple levels of the city far under them, and on the holos across the galaxy. The Rebel leaders dropped from a scaffold and were hung by wires, their tongues hanging from their mouths as their lives were choked out. Perversely, Luke felt pleasure at this, as if this was his very command.

He watched on holos as he could see Han and Lando and Chewie; ragged, dirty, stand defiantly before a firing squad; Han squaring his jaw and shaking his head one last time. He sensed Leia in prison, somewhere in a dark, forgotten dungeon, overcome with despair, far under Coruscant. All while the crowds roared for the execution of the Rebellion leaders above her.

He knew it was his work. Looking back from the balcony, from the cheering crowds, he turned back inside. The long hallway was covered now with a holo. The projected known universe floated there, the multiple systems of the galaxy covering the entire length of the massive hall. He passed through the lighted illusion, running his fingers across one system to another, slowly panning his eyes from orb to orb, tracing the paths of stars and comets. He knew that it all was his.

He continued, passing through the enormous palace, each room itself as tall as the tallest buildings on Mos Eisley. He passed room after room of elaborate tapestries that took several hands working across lifetimes. There were hallways of chiseled statues that were samples from worlds more numerous than he'd bother to count. He turned and caught a glimpse of himself in a polished granite pillar. He saw a man who was once Luke Skywalker. But with gray cropped hair, and a full white beard trimmed to a fine point. The face was sunken and fierce, the skin scorched and tightened. It was a face fully enthralled to the power of the Dark Side.

The whole vision only lasted a fraction of a second, but Luke had felt it imprint the vastness of its entirety on his mind like a singular shock falling on all his senses at once. He sipped the vision like a shot of strong drink that would take his legs from under him.

Still sitting on the ground, in his mere farmer's tunic again, he shivered. He was shaking now. This was too real. In a moment, he had inhaled an entire lifetime revealed through the Force. The Dark Side was too powerful to comprehend in any way that made sense. The power was too real to easily forget. Luke had only to draw from it, and it could pour its vast power into him.

"When you are calm. That is when you will know." Yoda's admonition rang in his head. He must be calm to know the Dark from the Light. Yet, somehow, as he concentrated, this world remained alluring. He could not purge the vision from his mind.

Bane was growing in size. His ghost now dwarfed the Jedi arranged before him. He was pacing like a feral creature, his face hidden by the flickering skull-like mask of carved metal.

"I studied many ways for a soul in the Force to anchor itself to the living, Skywalker. All of what you saw could be yours with power I can lend you. I have seen this future. You need only invite me in."

Luke sat cross legged before the shimmering Sith specter. He inhaled, calming himself, before defying his tormentor. Despite all his internal torment, Luke spoke softly.

"I won't allow it, Bane. I can't have you cross this plane to find a host among the Voss… or the Jedi pilgrims who may follow me. Or me."

The Darth guffawed hollowly from behind the skull mask. "And who would stop me, Jedi? You are just a child at this game. You are weak here. Stranded. And I no longer see that witch holding your lifeline. Your Jedi ghosts do not have enough strength to hold me back."

The Sith specter was now not only larger, but now more solid. More clear in the Force.

"I offered to share. But perhaps I'll just eat your soul, Skywalker, and simply hollow you out like a gourd. Your body will still be my conduit to the physical realm."

Luke lowered his head. He felt a muddiness to his thoughts. He cursed his own impatience. He was too young when he faced down Darth Vader. Was he too weak in the Force to take on the spirit of Darth Bane?

Bane's shadow now overcame Luke. He felt a blindness, no longer seeing even the bleak light on this flat Tatooine plane. He felt himself choking. Slowly, but surely, Bane's power was growing. It was strangling him like a bog snake.

::: | ::: | ::::

She thought of the words the mystics had taught her. Of the transitive nature of life's burning fire. How we are not just the sum of our parts.

But it was no comfort. The tears and heaving wouldn't stop. The discipline and the training could only go so far. The sudden emptiness was echoing inside her now. Jafan was dead. She could no longer reach him. No longer could she feel his presence she had known through the _Waskaja_ for more than a decade.

She thought of the children. She felt them. They were alive. They were safe for now, but they were scared. They wouldn't be safe for long.

Rasping with her breathing, she caught herself now. Her training. Her discipline. Skywalker was still seated and deep in a trance. She knew she had to get him out. For the sake of the Republic restored. For the sake of her family.

Jafan would have no hesitation. He was a sentimental fool, too, but he was too much a stormtrooper at heart. "Do your duty!" he would implore her. "You'll mourn for me enough some day! Save Skywalker."

She wasn't sure if it was her own voice that had said this. Was it Jafan from within the Force? Or was her mind compensating?

Too many thoughts. Too many distractions. When you are calm, then you will hear the song of the _Waskaja_ clearly. Her own thoughts bounced jaggedly between Vossik and Basic. Languages were all jumbled in her head.

She realized how she had thought and dreamed in Basic for years now. But her thoughts, going deep into the trance, and her dreaming, now, was in the language of her parents and mentors in the mystics. She spoke the words to herself for the ritual again. She attempted to slow down her terror, wipe her eyes, and feel the Force. She didn't notice the other figure quietly entering the cave.

Before she knew what happened, a pneumatic blast her her back, stealing her breath. A duracord net enveloped her, delivering an electric shock that instantly made all her muscles stiffen, no longer under her own control.

Through blurry vision, she could see the top of the cave. She felt the fire. She could hear wheezing and footsteps as someone approached. A man in a Mandalorian helmet stood above her, holding a bullpup rifle aimed at her face.

She could no longer scream. After the fear, and then the shock, now her mind was momentarily as sharp as a whetted blade. The Mandalorian stepped forward and spoke in a voice that was hoarse and baited with death.

"I've come a long way for this. I can see the blasters you have under your tunic, Voss toad. So I had to restrain you."

Immobile in the net, she stared up. She saw him clearly. That voice was dripping in pain. He was badly injured, and his armor was covered in blood. It must have been Drrsala who had injured him. She wondered if he was still alive. She blinked, distracted by her own plight. Her brain was on fire with fear as Syllba carefully scanned the room, stopping, and focusing on Luke.

Syllba stared at his bounty and seemed to cough a joyless laugh.

"Hello, Skywalker."

Luke said nothing. He was still sitting cross legged, deep into the Force. His physical body was practically lifeless. And defenseless.


	14. Chapter 14

First there was fire. Then there was a fall. Then there was the dull, aching thud as the ground slammed up into his body. He continued to fall. Still burning, he turned over, hitting more dirt. Sliding, then falling again, he tumbled, turning too fast to arrest his momentum. The ground once again battered his body. Drrsala hissed, wailed, and screamed despite himself. He finally was sliding just on loose dirt, then grass, still turning faster. In less than a minute of tumbling, he finally was at a stop, sliding on a long scree pile that dug deeply into his skin and shredded his cloth tunic.

He inhaled and growled, swallowing hard. His body was bruised at every angle. His bones were rattled, but nothing was shattered. He gasped a small cry, as much for his frustration as his injury, but only for a few seconds. Discipline and rage then drove him to roll himself over and bring himself back upright.

His chest was radiating pain. The rocket that struck him was little more than a blunt weapon that exploded and deafened his ear slits, biting some shrapnel into his scaly flesh. But the burst of phosphorus from the projectile had been heat like starfire itself.

Luckily for him, he had been close to needing a good molt. The old, dry layer of skin had burned off almost instantly. The fall down the mountain had smothered the burning wounds with dirt, shredding off the clotted, dead skin, and tearing and burning into the top layer of the new skin as well. His cut and lacerated newer flesh was in pain beyond endurance.

It was agonizing and exhilarating. For a Trandoshan, a fight with real meaning was the high mark of life. For a hunter, this pain was as sweet a memento of hunting points as was the drink of fresh blood from elusive prey. But his exhilaration did not last past the first few breaths. He'd lost the fight to the armored man and tumbled down the mountain. He'd fought him hard, and driven his staff through the man, but the man cheated when Drrsala was close to claiming his kill. The man had wrist weapons that hit Drrsala at the last minute.

He was furious. But then his mind cooled and he considered the code. Anything is fair in killing your prey. If he'd had rockets, he'd have used them, too, if he was cornered. He knew in fairness the great scorekeeper of the afterlife would score it the same way: He'd failed to protect his master, and the Goddess would know it was so.

Now his mind burned with strategy. If he had failed in his duty, and the Jedi he'd sworn an oath to protect was harmed, then he was to blame. He would, by tradition, then have to avenge him, or be forever shamed. He knew he must find the armored man and finish the job of harvesting him.

He took stock of his surroundings. He had tumbled to the bottom of the mountain that had taken them nearly an hour to ascend. The Voss village was just beyond the grove of trees in which he'd settled. The troopers would still be down here. He thought perhaps he could find them and bring them back with him.

He sniffed the air. There was blood and the burning smell of plasma. There was a battle. He snarled to himself. Made sense. The armored man was not alone. He attacked the Jedi while others fought down here. Drrsala's mind went into predatory mode. He removed his shredded tunic and rubbed it in the loose dirt in the scree. He dragged the poor garment forward, going under the shade of the trees, making sure to get mud and leaves wedged into the folds of the rough cloth. Then he re-wrapped the remains of the shredded tunic over his neck and head. He wore it more as a cape now, loosely over his back as he crouched down low. It would serve him well as camouflage, keeping him as innocuous as a shadow on the ground. He went forward on all fours, stalking like his Trandoshan ancestors would do: naked, relying on his senses and the touch on his scales, smelling the air and trees and the blood on the air.

He moved swiftly between the trees and rocks this way, peering up from cover periodically to view what was happening. The curiously multi-colored Voss people were huddled together or were surrendering to armored troopers who were fitting them with slave collars. There were bodies strewn across the village. The troopers were shouting and laughing. These were not the troopers he knew. Their armor was different — not as clean and uniform. They were colored with green and red decorations. There were two ships in the village that were not there before. There was a large, wedge-shaped cargo vessel that looked heavily worn. And there was a TIE fighter at the other end of the village. It looked to be just like the one he had piloted with the Jedi when his master had traveled through the sacred lands.

He swiftly shuffled in and among the huts. He continued to sniff the air. He tried remaining perfectly still, his muddy cloak serving its purpose to make him utterly indistinguishable in the shadows. The troopers with the strange colors were focusing on the Voss. They were searching them, sometimes beating them, and mostly putting the collars on the necks of the pleading people. Other troopers were waving scanners in different directions. Drrsala was still as a rock as he carefully observed those scanners. The troopers waved them around the air and periodically kept digging through pull carts or garden bins, ducking into Voss huts. Drrsala suspected that they were looking for metals and valuables. They almost certainly wouldn't be scanning for a life form like his. Good.

He continued to sneak closer. His profile was low; he was squeezing himself to be less than half a meter from the ground. His eyes could move independently of one another, which granted him a fuller range of view without him having to move his neck. He continued to scan visually and take in the smells. He saw some of the cleaner, white uniforms of the troopers he knew. He smelled the air and recognized some of their blood. He continued to crawl swiftly around the perimeter at the treeline. There was an area on the edge of the village, near the common latrines, where dead bodies had been dragged. There were many Voss bodies; too many to count, as many of them were just piled up. He slowly crawled by. There were three of the troopers there in shining white armor who were among the dead.

Drrsala shuffled on. He could not smell any tauntauns. They must have fled. He turned the corner and was closer to the center of the village; he was up adjacent to where the freighter was landed, which itself cast a long shadow in the afternoon.

At a row of huts before getting to the freighter, he saw three bloodied individuals about 20 meters away from his cover. From where he was, he smelled that they were familiar. They must have been troopers he knew. But they were stripped of their armor and overskins. They were bloodied, naked, and tied up to a laundry pole next to a hut.

They looked to be in pain, and otherwise seemed to be in bad shape overall. They sat upright, and their chests rose slightly with their breathing. But they all stared at the ground, covered as they were in blood and bruises like they had been beaten and cut into submission. One of them was instantly noticeable for his blue skin which Drrsala remembered. He was the trooper who had arranged the ring in the barracks in which the troopers cheered while Drrsala had hunted womp rats. Drrsala sniffed with remembrance.

He remembered that mammalians were incomprehensibly skittish creatures, always making squawking noises at one another they called their emotions. He knew only that the other humanoids had hurt these three, and he made the simple calculation that these were three who were loyal to his master, and they had shown him kindness, too. There was a saying in Trandoshan that those give rats to the hungry inspire loyalty in honorable hunters. He wouldn't forget it. One of the troopers with the marked-up armor stood next to them, shuffling his feet like he was not paying attention, looking out in the other direction. Clearly a guard.

The muddy cloth-covered reptilian in the shadows now shuffled on. Drrsala kept his ear slits and nasal glands alert for any of the other troopers who might be happening by. He was searching now to see if there was an angle by which he could possibly find a weapon or a tool he could use. He could help the three troopers, and maybe then they could find his Jedi master. Or avenge him.

In the clearing in the center of the village just in front of the freighter, there was a wide open space. Blood was evident across the dirt, but the bodies had been pulled clear. Except for two. They were dressed in the clean, white stormtrooper armor, but Drrsala could smell no blood from them. One of them was on its side, and pieces of its chest were strewn behind it, which seemed to glitter in the light. A droid? Another trooper was face down on the ground. It was still fully armored. Periodically, it moved a limb, stiffly, as though it could not properly bend its arms or legs properly. It made very little noise, but as Drrsala shuffled closer, he recognized the sounds of the droid's particular servo mechanics. As he came up to the side, its familiar voice was unmistakable.

"Oh! I say! Is someone there? I cannot turn over in this armor prison! Oh, why don't you have mercy and put me out of my misery? I was not build for this sort of thing. I am familiar with over seven million forms of communication…"

Drrsala hissed a whisper and reached a claw to poke the droid in the stormtrooper armor that enwrapped him.

"Oh, my! Oh, Drrsala! It is you! Thank the maker! You must help me out of this…"

Drrsala now fully slapped the droid's head, hidden as it was under a stormtrooper helmet, with a heavy fist. " _Be quiet!"_

C-3PO now adjusted himself. He changed his language to the lowest volume level at which he could still be heard. He spoke in the rapid clicks that made up the basic form of the Trandoshan language.

" _My apologies, Drrsala! Oh, if you help me upright, I will explain to you exactly what sort of horrible thing has happened to me!"_

::: | ::: | ::::

Intan sat down on a plasteel storage crate. This was the first chance he had to sit since early morning. He removed his stormtrooper helmet which was decorated with green and red pinstriping he'd customized to match his Correllian gang tattoos. He pulled out an inhaler stick and took in some vaporized spice oil.

So far, this score looked promising. The Marauders had lost two men, as he was afraid would happen. They were eager, but they were reckless. As soon as the probe located the remainder of the garrison's patrol, the fools should have known better. Those were trained troopers they cornered who knew how to shoot. Not these sad, primitive toads who could barely put up a fight at all.

It was bound to happen. That didn't make it any more palatable. They'd all been too long out of a real fight, stuck on the side of an Endor moon for all those years.

Scrogging Endor. The native Ewoks had a habit of stringing rope across trees which injured or killed the biker scouts on patrol. Even now, thinking of these furry savages drove Intan to a rage. The troops had nothing better to do back then but hold contests on who could hunt down the most Ewoks. They were clever primitives, but they built their forts out of wood, and they did burn well. The troops eventually built a ceremonial drinking chair out of Ewok skulls at their base.

But fighting savages was all they had to do during those years. They were a unit recruited late in the war, mostly from exiled criminals and juvenile delinquents. None of the idealistic, patriotic farm boys or runaways looking for adventure like the previous generation. Intan and his group were outlaws by inclination, and killers by trade. They'd been trained as stormtroopers, but they weren't the ones to get cushy garrison duty like those who were here on Voss. They were put out on the frontier to catch arrows from Ewoks, and keep rancors distracted. And they knew their role well. This was their time for payback and to earn themselves a real payday.

The Empire had left them there as rearguard scouts. They were uninformed, entirely, that there was a full Rebel engagement on the other side of the moon until the moment came when they saw a strange light like an early sunrise when the new Death Star exploded. Now, two of his men were dead because they were too used to fighting nothing that would fight back any more effectively than Ewoks. Their sacrifice would serve as a lesson to the others, and they'd be better prepared to take on better trained opponents. This was the beginning of what could possibly be a very lucrative mercenary career for the Marauders.

The lads had taken it out on those three remaining members of the garrison. Kale had insisted that they be kept alive for torture and interrogation, so who was Intan to say otherwise? Once they were stripped of their armor, they'd stomped the life nearly out them. Intan had to intervene to stop the others to make sure their skulls were still intact enough to keep breathing. He'd ordered Gojae to tie them to a post and stand guard while he insisted that the rest of the Marauders quickly snap-to and finish the job with looting the village. They had to flush out the rest of the hiding Voss and any caches of valuables. They would load up the slaves quickly once they'd had confirmation that Syllba had neutralized his target.

Intan stroked his braided beard as he pondered the next steps. He looked up as a shadow of a tall stormtrooper came over him. Lieutenant Kale had walked up to the leader of the Marauders, holding his helmet under his arm as he grinned smugly.

"Loafing around, Sergeant?"

Intan laughed and spit. "Didn't take long for your promotion to get to your head, eh? Now you're a regular Moffie seeing fit to dress down your social lessers?"

Kale was still every bit the Imperial. He smirked at the joke, but his body language was replete with the rigid discipline of a trooper of the line.

"Your men are gathering up the Voss. Will you be able to fit all of them in your freighter?"

Intan snorted. "I reckoned we'll get about a hundred of the best of 'em to sell to slavers. It's a lot of trouble hauling that kind of cargo around, anyway. You have to keep them secured, keep 'em fed. There's lots of other ways we could make money. I wonder if it's hardly even worth it with that haul back at the Keep."

Kale nodded. "Your men have been out of the fight, but they have skills. If you wanted to come back into the fold, I'd be glad to recommend each of them."

"We've been there, Kale. We've done our bit. You can go down fighting with the remnant of the Empire. That's not for us. Now… some of that material back at the garrison… I'd say with the leftover fabricators, the astromech droids, the algal incubators and plasma coils, and the armory? You let us have some of that, and we'll just turn these Voss into ash. They wouldn't be worth our trouble to sell compared to that haul."

Kale shook his head.

"Sorry to hear you've turned your back on the Empire, Sergeant. If you wish to go your way, you can take the Jedi artifacts, per our deal. I can't let you take Imperial property from the garrison."

Kale had an irritating condescension that threatened to provoke Intan to irrationality. He remembered why he was glad not to deal with officers anymore. Especially those who had been recently commissioned. Still, Kale got under his skin, and the sergeant snapped back.

"Oi, one last thing, there, Lieutenant. I don't care for saying we're turning our backs on the Empire. We've done our bit! They turned their backs on us, left us to die, and we looked up to watch every chain of command we had raining back down on us as burning bits of the fleet. So don't lecture me about loyalty, yeah?"

Kale's joyless expression didn't change. "Nevertheless, Sergeant, let's deal with the matter at hand. And I'll join you in a toast to the Emperor after that. Any of your men able to raise Syllba on the comm-link?"

Intan shook his head. "Negative. Last report from the probe was that he was about to confront Skywalker. The mountains up there severely interfere with comm-links. So as far as we know, one of them has killed the other by now."

Kale looked up into the hills. "We'll know soon enough. Maybe I should take the TIE back up and make sure that neither of them come back here. As long as the Jedi's head is procured, several parties will be happy and pay their promised fees."

"'Pretend Jedi,' my Lieutenant." Intan corrected him.

"Indeed, Sergeant. For these Voss – I recommend that if you only take a hundred, that you fill the cargo bay with at least a dozen more than that. Once you take off and are beyond the atmosphere, if any have given you any signs of trouble, just open the airlock and space them. Otherwise, just space a random surplus to make the rest of them pay attention. Once they see the hopelessness of their plight, and a few others floating and frozen outside the windows, you can be assured that they'll be docile."

Intan had to give it to Kale. He was a cold hearted bastard. He had to respect it. The Lieutenant continued.

"One other thing. You have noticed that almost all the Voss we've come across so far have been male? Mostly younger men? It's seems as if the women and children are hiding somewhere."

Intan nodded. "Yeah. We reckoned as many fled as they could. Otherwise, somewhere in the village, they must be hiding. My men are scanning around now, as they're rounding up the last of 'em into the center."

As if on cue, Intan's comm-link lit up.

"Top? It's Akkthan. I think we've got something under one of the huts near the rocky ground. It looks to be a hatch. Probably an entrance to an underground chamber."

Intan smiled and pulled himself up. He inhaled on his hookah deeply.

"Well, Kale. It looks like we've found our lost little nerffs. Let's go round them up, shall we?"

::: | ::: | :::

Luke Skywalker sat in a meditative position with his eyelids fluttering. He was deep in the Force, and essentially helpless within the physical realm.

Jeet Syllba's heart was beating with excitement. This was an important and triumphal moment for him as he aimed down the sites of his bullpup rifle at Skywalker. Up until now, he realized, he hadn't fully anticipated the moment. He assumed he'd likely have to kill this bounty, but the idea of taking him alive had some intrigue as well. His own wounds were forgotten for the moment, and his head was still light with the stims as he paced in front of his quarry. How to best savor this kill? He considered he may as well just take the lightsaber from the boys' belt and cut his head off. It would be the easiest way to get it off the mountain. He had a tank in his ship that would preserve it perfectly well. He was giddy while imagining how the Hutts and the Mandalorians would surely bid against one another to mount this prize.

Through gritted teeth, the Voss witch in the corner, corralled in an electrified net, spoke to him. "Mandalorian! Why? Why do this? Is it for revenge? Are you being paid?"

The pleas of his bounties were usually entertaining at best to Syllba, but this one had piqued his interest. How did this primitive on this irrelevant world even know of Mandalorians? He turned an eye towards her, looking her over, carefully. Clearly there was more to her than it seemed at first glance. Two blasters in her waist, which she could no longer reach, indicated that she was not quite the naif an amateur might assume she was.

"You, Voss toad: t ell me. Since you are my prisoner, tell me what is it that you're doing here yourself? What makes you think this fool who says he is a Jedi is worth your time? Worth your life?"

He could see she bit her lip and hesitated from speaking right away. Her eyes were still wide with fear. Or was it shock? She cursed in her own language, mumbling under her breath. He decided he'd quickly dispatch the boy and then her.

Syllba lowered his rifle and slung it once more. He pulled out his pistol. He cleared and checked the slide to make sure the plasma coils were wound and clear to fire. A quick shot to Skywalker's heart would do very well. Then he'd cut off the head and be done with it. He considered leaving the Voss witch alive to just die of thirst in this cave. But he wanted his net back, so scrog it, he'd quickly just put a round in her as well.

He quickly scanned the cave one last time to be sure of his surroundings. It was a natural formation, a crevice only a few meters deep into this mountain. A small fire reflected moving shadows on the texture of the walls. The floor was otherwise clear, save for a decorated box that looked highly jeweled with carved bantha-ivory details. There was a softly glowing orb inside of it emanating a calming, soft blue light. He blinked, finding his eyes saw spots and trails after staring at it for half a second. Perhaps the box itself was some sort of artifact? He may as well take that as well.

Confident that the room was clear, he turned to put the pistol to Skywalker's heart. But now the boy wasn't there.

Syllba swirled around instantly, aiming his pistol around the room. The cave was now hundreds of meters wide, leading to multiple caverns with shadows leaning into all distances. The fire was still there. The Voss woman was standing beside it, now upright with her hands at her side. She was dressed in the full white robes of the Voss mystics with the semi-diagonal patterns across them. She wore a long headwrap over her patterned white and red skin, tinged with blue. Her waist was cinched with a sash with the two pistols still there.

Syllba instantly fired his blaster, but the bolts didn't land home, inexplicably missing, as it seemed space itself bent in such a way that each shot was angled away. He lunged at her to take her down by hand. As he moved, however, she was simultaneously just out of reach. The harder he stumbled and ran at her, the more she continually remained the same distance away from him.

"What trickery is this? What have you done, Witch?"

"I really have done nothing, Jeet. But now that you've brought yourself into the Force by your own will, I'm afraid I cannot let you leave. You should not have entered this cave to threaten us."

He snarled. How did she know his name? He pulled the bullpup off the sling and into his arm, bringing it up to aim at her. She lifted a hand and waved slightly. He felt a great pressure crushing his mind and bringing him to his knees.

"You don't want to do that, Jeet."

He tore his helmet away from his head, no longer trusting any obstructed vision or the HUD. But it made no difference. Whatever he was seeing was not through the meat of his eyes.

"You are full of wrath, Mandalorian. And anger. I can feel you seething. You have brought this with you into the Force. And I cannot let you leave here."

Syllba sat, hyperventilating. He continued to scan the cave. At every moment, the size of the room seemed to shift, much as the Voss toad remained always at the same distance no matter where he ran. He stood up again and ran down the cave passageway away from her. He turned corners, aiming his rifle in front of him, searching the hidden spaces. There were passageways within the passageways that led further down into more cave tunnels. Despite the one fire, light was the same dim, even brightness through the cave structure.

"Is this a spell? Am I being drugged?" He shouted.

He turned a corner, darting into another cave. And found himself standing before Tylo once more. In frustration, he fired the bullpup on full automatic, sending plasma shots in a strafe in her direction.

She held her hands up, grimaced, and shimmered, as the bolts once again missed, inexplicably, as if the perspective of where she was relative to his stance was itself in constant flux. But it seemed to cause her some effort to cause this effect.

"Mandalorian, I must warn you. You can attack me, and attempt to injure me, here, but it will only draw you in further. If you focus only on wrath, if you choose vengeance, I cannot save you from the consequences."

Syllba snarled, standing up and running again. He headed further down the central corridor of the cave, heading in and out of each bend. Each passageway just led to another just like its predecessor. It was a maze, but all corners kept leading him back to the central room with Tylo standing there. He stumbled forward, leaning his hands on the undulating rock walls for support. His legs were aching, and his chest was burning with fatigue. And in all this activity, he began to feel the dull ache in his abdomen. The wound was making itself known. He forced his mind not to panic. The stims were still firing his neurons, still making his body feel close to invincible. But he was also sensing that their effects had crested, and were now diminishing.

He turned a corner and once again found Tylo standing before the small flame. He cursed loud and long, falling to his knees. He put his hands into fists and held them to his head, grimacing and raging.

"In my head! It's all in my head, somehow! Get out! Get ouuut!"

Tylo exhaled. She closed her eyes and continued to meditate. Her physical body was still snared and motionless. Her children were still in mortal danger. But for now, she could could hold the Mandalorian in place. Skywalker was still on his own in deep in the Dark Side.

::: | ::: | :::

In the darkness, Panna held her brother, Qyr. At first, the anxiety and rushing of the adults around them was exciting. They were too young to feel any responsibility to defend the village. They only knew what was happening was something out of the ordinary. But fear in them had come from seeing their father hurry. And even more so when they felt him in the Force, inexplicably. They now trembled, too full of fear to cry.

They were crushed here in the storehouse, feeling the press of other bodies against them. The children were here, as well as many of the women. They all were quiet, trying to breath as little as possible.

The walls were full of clay jars which contained dried or pickled goods. Many of the containers were recycled items from the garrison, as well as other discarded Imperial technology. The Voss had done their best to re-purpose the detritus of the industrial society that had colonized them.

She busied herself with those thoughts. She saw a case which once held various algal gel solutions from the base. Now it held dried fruits. Containers which once held the industrial grease for the mechanics now were sealed with nerff hides in them, preventing the stinking fur from drying out. The various smooth, Imperial plasteel cases with their stenciled Basic scripts on them were contrasted by the hand-formed and carved clay of the village potters. There were small barrels made from reeds which held some of the dried river flowers. These flowers smelled pleasant, but weren't edible themselves. They were useful to feed the tree beetles which themselves were good for roasting. She thought about how much she liked how those flowers smelled, and how the roasted beetles had just the right hint of that flavor that made them a delicacy. The flowers also were sometimes cooked with oils to make cakes of bathing soaps. They didn't always keep very well, though, as the beetles were attracted to the soaps, and would continually get into the huts and try and eat them if if they were left out.

There was a pinhole of light up at the top of the storehouse. This was where the entrance was. The air inside was stagnant, but the hole was slightly ajar to make sure that there could be some air exchange, and so the villagers hiding there would not suffocate. The smell of fear-induced sweat was nearly as strong as the scent of spice and flowers, as their air was limited.

There was a scraping noise. Then a shaft of light burst into the storeroom. A man's voice shouted in Basic telling them not to resist.

Panna's eyes were wide. Her Basic was very good, but few of the others here could speak it at all. One of the women began chattering in Vossik, pleading with the gods to spare them, shouting to the men above they meant no harm. Panna knew the outsiders would have no idea what she was carrying on about, and the rising, shrieking inflections would probably make them more irritated. She held Qyr tightly as she could anticipate what would happen next.

There was another metallic clank as something fell down the hole into their midst. Instantly everyone began screaming. Panna and Qyr winced, bracing themselves.

There was a shock like her entire body had been punched. Once, when she was very little, Panna had been picking flowers in the field while a nerff was running wild. She hadn't heard her father's panicked voice, but found herself knocked down by the nerff, her whole body aching, seeing stars against a field of blackness. She eventually opened her eyes after a period of not remembering anything for several minutes.

The concussion grenade had a similar effect, but much worse. Everyone's body was in shock, and their minds were groggy. All senses were overwhelmed, and they were all completely immobilized. Capillaries in their bodies burst, and blood trickled from their orifices as they were unconscious. Several of the Voss in the bunker voided their bladders involuntarily. They were unconscious for minutes, and semi-conscious for several more. Panna only knew there was a feeling of gloved hands violently pulling on her, dragging her up out of the hole, dragging her through the dirt. She remembered her eyes blinking, staring up at the sky within the fresh air.

Men's voices were shouting in their faces as their bodies were shoved and dragged up the ladder and along the dirt, finally being jerked upright painfully, forced into kneeling positions on the ground. Each of them complied as though they were shuffling along in a dream. Finally, Panna came to, finding herself covered in ash, kneeling with all the others, all their clothes torn and ripped at the seams as the stormtroopers handled them roughly, searching their bodies. She was then next to her brother, who still looked scared as they exchanged a brief glance.

They were troopers. But they were not like the troopers her father Jafan commanded. They had different colored markings. And they weren't restrained or disciplined. They were terrifying. They screamed and kept punching the women and children. A woman pleaded, and a Twi'lek female with head tentacles in a pilot's uniform smashed the woman with the butt of a rifle, leaving her curled on the ground, whimpering and holding her broken head. The pilot woman laughed wickedly after that. She went walking through, randomly kicking more of the Voss women in their chests as they knelt. Panna knelt, holding tightly onto the bantha-skin holster her father had given her for safekeeping.

The Twi'lek woman in the pilot's uniform came before her. Panna was breathing hard with the fear rattling in her body. The woman smiled, touching Panna's face gently. She reached down for the holster in her hands. Panna held it with the desperation that it was her father's soul.

The pilot woman didn't even change her expression. She hit Panna in the face with a balled fist. Hard. Stunned, the nine year-old collapsed to her hands on the ground, feeling a trickle of blood coming from her nose, and a crushing ache in her head. She looked up to see that the woman was holding the holster now, taking out what was inside of it. It was the metal cylinder that the Jedi had given her father. It was a weapon with a finely knurled metal pommel and a crystal inside of it, visible just inside the handle. The pilot woman held it, impressed by the quality, as though not expecting to find something like this among the Voss. She spoke in Basic to her companion, a dark skinned man with shaggy hair which fell in his face. She obviously didn't expect that Panna understood Basic, either.

"Look. These toads were scavenging the castle as well. The little one must have been given this for safekeeping. Hah!"

The troopers continued stripping the Voss. They took coins, jewelry, and anything valuable that any of them had on their bodies. They tossed them on a heap of purloined valuables. The troopers felt the women's bodies, judging their market worth, and periodically forced open the mouths of the children to check their teeth.

Panna was too hurt and too frightened to cry. She felt her whole body had been violated and punished for no reason. She felt her head was hot in trying to contemplate the cruelty of her captors. Her father's last gift had been taken away, and she felt an anger that bordered on despair. Her tunic was still hanging on her loosely, and she kept her head down, trying to hide inside the garment.

Another pair of hands violently grabbed her chin and pulled it up to force her to look at its owner. It was a trooper who had now removed his helmet. She recognized the face with its scowling features and furry eyebrows. He was an unsmiling man from the garrison she remembered. Kale.

"Interesting, isn't it, Intan? These are Jafan's children. See the freaks they are? Half toad. See how the Voss markings of their skin is lighter than the others? And under this robe, they have light hair on their heads, unlike the others?"

Another helmet-less stormtrooper with a terrifying face and a braided beard looked disinterested at her. Kale was more enthusiastic.

"Oh, how I enjoy seeing this. Jafan's affection for these toads compromised the garrison, and almost let a Rebel take it over completely. We'll make sure his legacy gets what they deserve. This boy will serve well, I'll bet, for the mines of Ilum. He's just a non-human, mostly, but human enough to be clever, I'm sure. They'll pay well for him at the mines, and he'll last ten years or so, I'd wager.

"And her… well, her mother was a kind of beauty for these toads. As an oddity, she'll sell well. Those Ilum miners take their recreation seriously. They'll pretty her up enough, and they'll take their money's worth out of her before they wear her out."

Panna had been raised with knowing of the way the mystics would pray. And she had learned from the Jedi how to call to the Force. In her despair and fear, she felt a sob in her throat. She closed her eyes and put her hands together. The soldiers began laughing heartily.

Reaching out, she called to the Force, like reaching blind through empty air. There was more laughter. She felt another violent slap on her face that knocked her to the ground. She left her eyes closed and her head turned, remaining in that position. The soldiers laughed again, and she felt Kale's giant hands grip her arm like he was going to crush it.

Even still, she reached out into emptiness. Darkness deep from her mind reached into more darkness. There was an otherworldly calm in her mind, now, and the fear that skated across her nerves was muted, and the angry voices seemed muffled. She could feel herself reaching into those depths, falling through fathoms of emptiness. Kale was still holding her arm, violently shaking her body, but to her, it seemed to be in slow motion. Her eyelids were fluttering, and her body had gone limp. She called out into the Force with all the will she could muster.

Finally, very quietly, the call into the Force echoed and was stopped. Something had answered.


	15. Chapter 15

How am I still alive? Heff opened his right eye, blinking, trying to focus, but seeing only the ground in front of him. His left eye was watery, and didn't seem to work correctly. With the beating he had taken, and the subsequent pain, he suspected it was probably crushed. Even with his arms severely tied behind his body, he knew he was finished. He didn't remember much after the stun blast until he was aware that his armor was being pulled off his body. Then he received a stomping from the mercenaries. Feeling his ribs and his organs being crushed, and his knees nearly shattered, he'd gone into an internal trance, expecting death.

It was ignominious to die this way. He was willing to make a stand. But he was brought down before he even had the chance to take a shot at Kale. He never cared much for religion or the chattering words of the old priests, but now he thought of the tales told around the campfires when he was little. About how the wise and strong warriors would live forever in the golden halls of ice in the afterlife. It once made no more sense to him than the prophecies or tales of the birth of the world, which also couldn't possibly be true.

Feeling his life being beaten out of him, he'd taken some comfort in choosing to believe that he would soon drift off into death. He mused on the path he took to end up dying this way on a distant garrison in a far-flung system. He hadn't been content to live as a bog sailor or weedpuller, which were the fates of a farmer's son in the Chiss colony on Ornfra. His brothers and sisters were dull enough in his opinion to desire no more than a simple farmer's life. But he would lie awake at night and dream of something else. He took his chance when he came of age to apprentice on a trading vessel, leaving his home system and traveling to the greater galaxy. He enlisted as a trooper in the Galactic Empire, and he excelled when given his chance. He learned languages, fighting styles, shooting skills, and he was barmy with the pride and polish he felt as a stormtrooper. He was proud when he qualified to be a member of the elite garrison on Voss.

The war had mostly passed him by until now. And now he was going to be killed in it just like all the others. Maybe he'd see his brothers in the afterlife. He hoped it wasn't just a Chiss thing, as he hoped to meet up with fallen trooper brothers much more than he cared about seeing any of his blood family again.

In the moment he saw death beckoning, he had been granted the boon of a sudden release from fear. He welcomed death if that was what was next for him. He longed for a great long sleep now; longed never needing to wake again.

But he was still alive. Naked, wounded, tied up, still in agony in the physical world. But soon enough to be discarded meat tossed into a heap. Kale probably wanted to torture him. He resigned himself to the necessity of that being endured.

He could tell that Desek and Balia were tied up beside him to the pole. His body hurt too much to turn his head very far, and he could see very little from his watery eye. We can laugh about this in the afterlife. I hope Centopt Jafan will be there, too, he told himself.

He heard the sound of servos and metal feet thumping on soil. Through a blur, he saw one of the Jedi's droids, C-3PO, shuffling his way toward the Marauder trooper who was standing guard over his three prisoners. The Marauder, in his modified stormtrooper armor looked straight at the droid, raising his blaster with a hesitating sense of puzzlement. Threepio instantly stopped, raising his hands as high as they could travel.

"Oh! Don't shoot! I have come with orders for you from Lieutenant Kale. He has asked that the prisoners be untied so that they can rest. So that they are in better shape for their questioning."

The Marauder lowered his blaster. "Huh. He said that, huh? Why didn't he tell me on the comm-link?"

"Oh, that's very simple! He wants to keep radio silence because… uh, I'm sorry…" Threepio's eyes were glowing in a strobing way as he seemed to be processing the information. Or perhaps lying.

"What is this, Droid? What the scrog is going on?"

"Terribly sorry! Slight malfunction! I was damaged by the Voss warriors, you see!"

"Uh huh."

Heff then noticed an unusual shadow that seemed to be moving along the ground. His mind was sluggish from the beatings he'd taken, but a slight alert began to tingle his bruised mind that this was not a natural shadow. The shadow now seemed to be a dirty cloth, undulating as it scraped swiftly toward the guard from behind.

The guard leaned in to C-3PO, seemingly growing more annoyed with the droid's loquacious procrastination. As he did so, Skywalker's Trandoshan servant emerged from under the cloth. Drrsala's red scales were visibly scarred, but if he was hurt, he didn't act it. The guard swung around and aimed his blaster. Before he could fire, Drrsala had pushed one of the Voss atlatl spears through the front of his neck. He drove it with such a violent force that it burst messily through the neck gaiter under the helmet and out the back. Gagging and impaled, the stormtrooper fell to his knees clutching at his throat while Drrsala stood straight up, his unchanging reptilian face permanently grinning. He then unceremoniously stepped on the Marauder's shoulder and yanked the spear back out, the iron dart-head popping out with an attendant mist of blood as the Marauder fell flat on his back. Drrsala then squatted and very efficiently began stripping the dying mercenary of his armor and weapons. He was careful to remove the helmet first. He poured out the pooling blood after taking a brief taste.

The mercenary's body was twitching as he died, gagging on the spurts of blood that escaped from his throat. Heff could see that his eyes remained wide open, seemingly focused in the distance on nothing in particular. He felt some tinge of sympathy in that these Marauders were once stormtroopers just like he was. This would have been an upsetting sight to see, and it would have prompted some stronger feelings of compassion from him, if this had been any dying opponent on a day before today. But he was at a point of being almost indifferent to such suffering now. His sympathies for the mercenary soon passed.

Heff noted that Drrsala was nothing if not effective at killing things. This he may have once found upsetting as well. It made Heff money back in the barracks, collecting bets for the spectacle of the Trandoshan hunting down and devouring womp rats. He'd often wondered how the Trandoshan would be in a fight against a real opponent. He wasn't disappointed to see it.

Threepio shuffled over, stepping gingerly over the armor being stripped from the guard's corpse, careful not to step in the streaming blood. He kept his hands aloft as he exclaimed some ticks in Drrsala's language. Drrsala hissed and made a series of tick noises back. He reached back and picked something up from the Marauder's belt. Threepio took it and continued shuffling over to the members of the garrison. He bent over and displayed a small hand-held vibroknife which he used to cut the duracord binds.

Balia had been staring straight forward, not changing his expression. Desek's scarred face turned up in hope as Threepio began working on the bonds.

C-3PO twittered nervously as he worked. "Oh, dear me. Drrsala has requested that I free you. I am afraid Master Luke is in trouble, and Drrsala intends revenge on the armored man who threatens him."

Heff rubbed his hands together after they came free.

"I've got similar thoughts. The rest of them are over in the center of the village, rounding up the Voss. Droid, if you can see where they discarded our overskins and our armor, we'll lend a hand. After today, Drrsala's getting only the finest rats my credits can buy. Either this life or the next."

::: | ::: | :::

An older man of an alien race — was it Mirilian? — was sitting cross legged with his hands resting on his knees. He seemed very old indeed. He had green-to-ashy-grey skin. He wore long, brown robes with an elaborate sash. His eyes were closed. He was surrounded by a bright blue ethereal glow.

"My name is Essepura Ijaffa, little padawan. You must…"

He was very weak and had trouble continuing. His eyes opened. He seemed to be a vision moving in slow motion. He spoke with a raspy urgency.

"…You must reach out. You must take it. Take it back. Hold it. And strike with it. The Force will flow through you. Strike! Strike now!"

Panna blinked. The vision faded, but she was still suspended in what felt like a slow-moving mirror of the world. She was still on Voss. But she was also somewhere else. She felt her mind expand to understand the position of everything around her. She was aware of the heat of the breathing bodies. She felt the anger of the mercenaries, and the fear of the women and children who had been hiding in the bunker, now on their knees with their hands on their heads. Her brain tingled, sensing the volume of air in which she floated, and the numerous grains of sand on which she knelt. She could feel the brutal hand crushing her right arm, feeling the sinew and blood and fibrous muscles, as well as the poisonous mind driving it.

She reached out and felt the lightsaber her father had given her. The troopers who had come from outside the garrison took it from her and put it on a pile of confiscated Voss belongings 20 meters away. The weight and texture of the pommel was familiar in the skin of her hand. The weapon itself was alive with the Force. And though the Force, a vision of the Jedi who once wielded the weapon had spoken to her. The blade sang softly. It reached out, flowing within the vibrations of all living things that encircled them both. It wanted to return to her hand.

There was no distance now between her hand and the saber. Not any distance other than what there was in the physical world, anyway. She felt time slow and compress, pulling the very universe inward towards her. The saber was now in the air. It was coming to her as she called. It was in her hand. Still in the trance, she held the massive pommel with both hands, putting her right thumb over the crystalline ignitor button.

It happened in less than a second. But to her mind, the movements in the Force were as though she was moving slowly within a gently flowing river.

Lieutenant Kale still held her by her right arm, shaking her violently as her eyes were opaque and her body was limp. He looked down and was shocked to see that she had pulled back the weapon that was taken away from her. She held it now, pointing the open end at his chest.

There was a hiss of plasma ignition and a wash of blinding yellow light as the lightsaber came alive. Panna held the weapon with all her strength as the blade exploded through Kale's armor, exiting through his back, sending a geyser of charred gore into the air.

There was no sound for a moment save the humming of the lightsaber burning the air and a gasping exhale from Kale. His face was frozen in a look of surprise. And then confusion. Panna was panting so hard she thought she would hyperventilate. Her eyes widened with fear as Kale's iron grip went soft on her arm, the fingers melting away.

She was on her feet now. She backed up and wrenched the lightsaber, still gripping the pommel firmly with both hands. With a sucking sound, it exited from Kale's body cavity, which had sealed itself around the plasma blade. The air was ripe with the smell of burned meat. With his eyes lifelessly open, he fell forward and Panna, still wielding the saber, stepped to the side to get out of his way. The body fell face first into the dirt and was still.

The rest of the Marauders were too shocked to know what to do. They didn't fully believe what they now saw. A nine-year old half-Voss girl with an ignited lightsaber was standing over the dead Lieutenant. They instantly lifted their blasters and aimed them at the group of Voss.

"No!" At the voice of her younger brother, Panna turned her head to see that Qyr's eyes were closed as he shouted. He held out his hands as though holding a pair of walls apart which were closing in on him, remembering the discipline of the Force exercises he had done with the Jedi. He grit his teeth and visibly shook from the strain.

The blasters in the hands of all the Marauders were violently pulled away. The weapons were tossed, turned in the air, and landed several meters behind the crowd of cowering Voss women and children.

Something was definitely abnormal about the pair of children. The Marauders now, for the first time on Voss, truly began to know fear. They looked at the children and back at the supposedly helpless Voss. They had been dazed from the concussion grenade, but now they were staring back with a new consciousness and anger.

The fear had a powerful effect. Already unarmed of their heavier blaster rifles, (all still had side-arms and various blades), they were unsure what to do next. The first Marauder to break turned and ran toward the freighter. The others hardly even paused to look at one another before turning and running as well, now as much to save what loot they had already stashed as to get away from this rapidly deteriorating and terrifying situation.

Intan, their commander, was the sole Marauder left standing in front of the Voss prisoners. He peered at the corpse of Kale, and back at the terrified girl with the burning blade, and the boy with hands held out. He removed his blaster pistol from his side holster and held it with two hands. The girl was terrified, but she nervously held the glowing saber to her front, unsure of what to do next.

The rest of the Voss women in the crowd now fully awoke to the reality of what was before them. Shaking off the effects of the stun grenade, they stood up from their knees and pushed the children behind them. One of the women in the back bent over and picked up one of the scattered blaster rifles. She held it awkwardly, but pointed it at Intan with a fierce look in her eyes. The others repeated this activity. Soon, all twelve discarded blaster rifles were held and pointed at him.

He didn't move from his ground at first. He sneered and chuckled diffidently. He knew they almost certainly wouldn't hit him even if they all fired at once. Such was the nature of wielding weapons for the first time. But he knew when the odds had turned, and he was no fool. He put his pistol back into its holster and turned his back. He replaced his own helmet back on his head. He calmly walked away.

One of the women, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, shot anyway. She saw the carnage around her, felt the violations done to her body, and her desire for revenge was too intense to ignore. The bolt exploded at the ground far wide from Intan. He continued walking and didn't look back. The rest held their weapons, similarly overwhelmed with the events and with what they'd seen. The woman who fired did not fire again. No one chastised her. No one blamed her.

Panna turned the lightsaber off and the blade hissed back into the handle. She fell to the ground, sobbing inconsolably. She wasn't sorry she had killed Kale. But she was terrified that she had done so. And for the first time, she openly wept for her father. Qyr walked over and held her hand. His eyes welled with tears alongside hers.

::: | ::: | :::

Darth Bane's presence in the Force was no longer flickering in and out of its visual form. He looked fully solid, but only when directly faced head-on. At an angle, he was semi-transparent, and his robes covered limbs that looked to be wasted and bony, as they were of a man long ago dead. His robes were ragged, like a burial shroud, but the interweaving layers flowed and danced constantly as his specter slid back and forth, as if he were cloaked in a fire that burned with darkness instead of light. He wheeled to face Luke as he circled him. His face was hidden entirely behind the metal mask that was formed like a flattened skull. Dented, mis-colored, and partially corroded, the empty plate was the only truly solid, unchanging feature within the moiling darkness.

Luke was now standing defensively. He knew better than to draw a weapon or make an aggressive move. In here, within the Force, and facing the Dark side, he would see what he brought with him reflected in Bane.

That made him worry about the visions Bane had shown him; Luke as a Sith Lord, directing the Galactic Empire. As much as Vader had even attempted to draw him into the same promise, this vision was too solid to shake off. Bane had shown him something much more tangible. About how in the balance he could draw on the power of the Sith.

Luke spoke calmly. "You were powerful, Darth Bane. But your time has passed."

Within the swirling darkness, a lightsaber hissed, and a red blade was drawn. Luke stood his ground and drew his weapon. The green crystal in his saber gave life to his own blade. He still held it defensively, tilted forward from his waist as Bane continued to circle him, waving his red blade alive with a living, humming sound of bending and burning air.

Bane's voice was hollow and strained. It echoed from the realm of death into Luke's mind.

"Are you not curious, Skywalker? The power there is within the Dark Side? You've seen your abilities grow. But you were only barely a padawan. Show me your willingness to have that power, and you could become my apprentice. I would cross that bridge of the living and be anchored to you in your physical form. I would direct that power. I would give you what you have seen!"

Luke remained silent and continued to angle his saber defensively, waiting for Bane to attack. He was concentrating on his breathing, feeling the Force, and not letting Bane get an angle to his flank. The spirit roared a laugh and jabbed at Luke, causing the young Jedi to twitch and dip his saber at him. Bane continued to laugh, swinging his blade almost carelessly in a wide circle around himself. A ghostly hand reached out from the black cloud and a burst of lightning snapped at Luke, cutting into him, knocking him to the sandy ground.

Luke grimaced, popping back up as the pain pulsed through his veins. Was it a phantom pain, though? Only through the remembrance of what he felt when facing Palpatine? Here in the Force, he could not tell. Separated from his body, it was only a reflection of the physical realm. He repeated it to himself in an attempt to be convinced that it was not real as he watched the Sith swinging his blade around with lightning still crackling on his fingers.

"It is no matter, Skywalker. I could still consume you. Don't become my apprentice, but instead my puppet."

The world turned. Luke was no longer on Tatooine. He stood on a ground covered with soft ash. It was a ring with seven stone petroglyphs arranged within the circle in a random pattern. Above him was the vast, purplish night sky of Voss, smeared as ever with a bright wash of stars and two gleaming moons. This was the temple that was under the Keep as it must have been in the age before the castle was built, back when it was an open temple for the mystics to commune with the _Waskaja_. At the edge of the circle, and ringing it entirely, Luke could see a wall of ghostly specters in long, gently flowing robes of mostly white with geometric patterns as decoration. They were nearly transparent, and barely visible in the blanket of night. But their eyes were soft, red lights in the darkness. They were the spirits of the mystics who, through the centuries, had communed with the Dark and the Light here at this place. Their ashes now covered the floor. The petroglyphs were records of their rituals to mark the ages, serving as the cenotaphs for their journeys into the Force. They rested here in the Force now, watching the contest in the ring before them.

Darth Bane's form stalked Luke, appearing to dart in front of one cenotaph and then behind another. Luke continued to wheel to face him. Bane made no sound himself, but the hissing of his saber reverberated, seemingly jumping from spot to spot, in front of and behind him.

There was an elongated hum as Bane's spirit appeared behind Luke, taking a great swing. The young Jedi braced his feet and swung his saber overhead to parry. The strength of the blow nearly knocked Luke down. Bane pivoted, thrusting his saber in for a stab. Luke adjusted his saber to the front of his body and performed a circle parry, flicking Bane's lightsaber to go wide. Luke was breathing heavily now.

The spirit passed near Luke. The roiling blackness swept over him, on him, and through him, burning him over his entire body. He fell to his side, yelping at the pain. Still reeling, he looked up to see that Bane had spun around, and was sending his saber on another long arc towards the young Jedi.

The heat still burned Luke, making his very blood feel hot. He leapt up in a rage. He wildly struck Bane's blade in another parry to arrest his swing. Darth Bane drew back and swung another wide attack calculated to strike down again on the Jedi. This time, Luke was ready, performing a feint, drawing Bane closer only to swipe away at his blade. Luke moved forward on the offensive, swinging his own green lightsaber again, clashing off the Sith Lord's defensive block. Luke wasted no time in preventing his opponent from regaining his momentum. He continued to drive him back as he swung again, higher, letting Bane catch his blade above his head once more. Luke now pushed with his strength to separate the hissing blades, planted his back foot and wheeled, swinging low, cleaving Darth Bane in half at the waist.

Or so he thought. He cut through the ghostly opponent, who instantly dissipated. Luke was panting, unable to catch his breath. He still held the pommel of his humming weapon as he pivoted, turning, darting his eyes back and forth across the ring. Darth Bane was nowhere to be seen. But his distant, raspy laughter was heard in the edge of Luke's mind.

"Very good, Skywalker. Do you feel it? The strength in this place? The power that Vader had found?"

Luke felt his nerves sparkle as though the lightning was still channeling down his body. He still felt the black fire that had singed his body, and he could feel it still longing to devour him; still smelling the charred bits of his skin flaking into the air. He thought of Anakin's body turning to cinders, and of his hollowed visage left within the Force. Luke peered down again at his arms and he noticed he was no longer wearing the farmer's tunic, but the interlaced scales of the black armor he'd seen in the vision. He felt his face and could feel the strain of the Dark Side pulling lines on his skin.

"You see, Jedi, I can draw you in, whether you come voluntarily or not. You are a prisoner here. The other Jedi cannot help you now. The ring of mystics have seen to that. They are a strength which I alone can draw on. Fight me, and I will grind you down. Choose not to fight me, and I will still grind you down, and I will drag your burning soul back into your body. And together, Skywalker, together, we will be a powerful dark Lord. With your living flesh and my remnant within the Force."

Luke was panting now. "You will keep trying, Bane. You won't win." He hoped it was true.

He fell to his knees as he tried to slow his heart and concentrate on the Force. He could see Bane once again materialize at the other end of the circle. There would be no time for rest. No time for calm. Luke stood again and swung his lightsaber up, holding it again at his chest level as his opponent came toward him. Bane once again began wildly swinging his blade as he steadily came forward.

The spirits at the edge of the ring were silent. They were corpses posed upright as an audience of the dead. Only their glowing eyes betrayed that they watched. Nothing among them showed any motion except for the gossamer cloaks which shimmered in the starlight, noiselessly ruffling in the phantom breeze.

::: | ::: | :::

Jeet Syllba held his hands to his face. The cave now seemed to be closing in on him ever slowly. It also seemed to be washing all color away in the room.

His wound was bothering him again. He felt it through his awakening pain centers. He knew he was trapped in a pocket of the Dark Side while his body was still dying in the real cave. He turned toward the Mystic, Tylo-Ko, and she still was there. But she was panting and looking pained. It took much of her strength to keep him bound here. She was no longer as upright as she had been.

He took his chance and lifted his rifle and shot her. Even here, in the Force, where no actual bolts had penetrated her body, she winced from the psychic pain of the hit. He approached her and wrapped his hands on her throat. She was strong enough to push him away minutes earlier, but her defenses were weakening now.

"Let me out, Witch! Let me out and I will kill you quickly and without any pain."

Her mouth was agape and her eyes growing opaque as she concentrated on enclosing the Force around Syllba. He'd entered the Force trance by his own volition by staring into the meditation holocron, but it was her will that held him here.

"I … will not… I will die in here before I … let you out."

Syllba was too angry to speak. He struck her across her face as hard as he could before grasping her again and returned to squeeze her neck. His confusion only multiplied his rage. How was this possible? In a place that was not in the physical world, how could he even hurt her? How could she hurt him as she had by immobilizing him like this? He screamed again.

"Let me OUUUuuut!"

Tylo made no effort to stop him now. His rage was overwhelming her, even if the blows were only psychic blows when within this space. She reached through the Force and drew it in, pulling it even further around them. They would be trapped together in this struggle. She would drain every ounce of strength which she held onto by keeping him from waking. Or he would first weaken and die of his body's wounds.

But it wouldn't be long, either way now. She was fading fast. She whispered into the Force with all her will.

"Fight, Skywalker. You must… fight your way out of this. I… cannot… help you any more."


	16. Chapter 16

Heff's pale blue flesh had seen better days. He suspected he'd got the worst of the beatings from the Marauders. Or, at least, he was maybe only the least resilient. He looked over at his two remaining companions from the garrison as they slipped into their overskin garments. Desek was shorter than Heff, but he was a thick-necked brute. Heff couldn't remember him being hurt by anything other than trying to make the garrison's daily 5 kilometer run. He never asked Desek where he received the scar across his face, but he reconciled to himself that it was unfortunate in consequence for whoever had inscribed it there. Balia, who had remained quietly in despair since the death of his lover, Rikka, was tall, but also as solid as brick, and probably would have tired out the Marauders in trying to hurt him just with their fists and boots.

For Heff, there was agony as the overskin did it's job in resealing itself over his flesh, providing a micro-climate on the inner layer, the nano-bacteria devouring his wounded, dead skin, channeling the debris and dead cells through its own alkaline arterial system to a waste pouch. The micro-fibers were providing pressure against the body where it was needed, and slight topical anesthetics for where there were open cuts. It helped. But not by much.

The day was cool, but not yet as frigid as it would be at night, so the discomfort of being stripped naked was the least of his concern. But even with his possibly broken ribs and punctured organs and a crushed eye, the warmth the suit provided was at least some comfort. He leaned against the reed and clay wall of the hut and struggled to pull on his boots. Their armor had been scattered when the Marauders had dragged their unconscious bodies to be tied up. C-3PO now went about as quickly as possible finding the proper pieces in the pile, and pulling them over to the troopers.

Drrsala had stripped the dead guard, and was doing his best to refit the stormtrooper armor with its green and red pinstriping over his reddish scales. He was still a junior Trandoshan, and was himself a head shorter than Desek. He fit the chest piece on his reptilian body, but his torso was too small to fit the pelvic piece before his legs began. He managed to put the forearm and shin pieces on only because Trandoshans had somewhat disproportionately longer limbs than humanoid forms. The helmet was just able to fit his reptilian head, but he could not make sense of the HUD, so he quickly discarded it.

As a lance corporal, Heff had inherited command. Drrsala handed the guard's blaster to him. Heff looked at it, and realizing his lack of depth perception made him useless, handed it over to Balia, who was an excellent shot. Balia and Desek managed to recover side-arms from their belts. But they were low on firepower as a group.

"What now, Top?" Desek asked.

Heff sighed. They were three beaten-up, shocked, and fatigued stormtroopers. They had one blaster rifle and three pistols, one young and bloodthirsty Trandoshan, and one protocol droid. It wasn't much to go up against the mercenaries. Also, based on Drrsala's telling, the Jedi may already have been dead.

There was suddenly a commotion near the freighter. The group crouched near the huts they'd been leaning against while pulling their gear back on. They saw a loose group of mercenaries running full speed towards the freighter. One of the mercenaries, walking slowly by contrast behind them, began shouting at the rest to get their heads and "form up!"

"Don't run to the ship, you mice! Get the slaves! Round them up, and then we're out of here."

Heff bit his lip. Something had happened that had spooked the Marauders. Someone was fighting back. Good. Now was their chance.

"I would normally not want to start a fight by shooting someone in the back," Heff whispered, "but I'd say these scrogs deserve it."

Desek grinned. Balia nodded ominously and began checking the coils in the blaster rifle. Drrsala hissed and ticked. C-3PO piped up with a translation.

"I say – Corporal, Sir?"

"Just say 'Corporal', Droid. Yes?"

"Drrsala has just mentioned – he is familiar with the type of TIE fighter that is resting at the far end of the village. He estimates that he can run to it in less than one minute. He piloted one at the behest of Master Luke and he…"

"Good. Do it!" Heff interrupted. He looked at Drrsala.

"You're a good lizard to have on our side, Drrsala. Go get it. If you can get it in the air and give us support, we'll take them all out. Save the Voss as the first priority. It's what Jafan wanted."

Drrsala growled with something approaching glee. He turned and began to scramble. Then he stopped, turned, and made rapid tick noises. C-3PO demurred.

"I – I say! He wants me to come with him! And, well, I believe it would be best – OH!"

Drrsala had tossed the golden droid on his shoulder. C-3PO was making protesting noises as his limbs were bouncing with the Trandoshan's running motion.

Balia cracked a grin watching the spectacle of Drrsala carrying the droid. He spoke up for the first time since they were freed.

"For the best. No one knows what Drrsala is saying. And the droid is best used as a translator for when they get that up in the air."

They watched the two of them rapidly dart between huts, heading over to the gray-and-black TIE that was resting in the dirt.

Meanwhile, the Marauders were screaming at the unfortunate Voss who were still cowering on their knees in the center of the village, pacified with slave collars. They were now getting up in groups, being marched up the ramp into the freighter.

"Oh. "OH! Do be careful, Drrsala!" C-3PO often regretted not being built for greater flexibility. As he always stressed, he was built primarily for protocol, so his limbs were not intended to bend in the ways needed to travel as roughly or as far in the terrain in which he often found himself.

Drrsala was efficiently silent as he ran. When he came upon the TIE, he clicked in recognition that it seemed to be the one he had piloted before. He began climbing up the ladder steps to the cockpit. He hissed at C-3PO to follow him.

The droid followed with difficulty. His limbs did not bend in such a way to comfortably grab the handles while maneuvering his feet into place.

As Threepio began to pull himself up to the hatch, the entire TIE shook as Drrsala fired the repulsors to life as swiftly as he found the controls. The vibrations knocked the droid forward into the cockpit, falling on top of Drrsala. He shouldered Threepio's form to fall behind him into the gunner's seat as the craft pushed up against the ground. It was airborne; floating now inside its own gravity-canceling bubble.

"How clumsy! I am UPSIDE DOWN!" Threepio protested as he worked his limbs to right himself in the narrow gunner's chair. Drrsala clicked at him to hold on and right himself. He knew the droid would be able to sort itself out, even as it had a tendency to narrate its progress as it did so.

As Threepio pushed against the seat and the rear screen, his electronics chimed that they made a contact synchronization with the TIE's comm-link. The vessel was picking up various transmissions, including an encrypted channel coming from Vader's Keep. He found he had the correct decoding sequence key already.

"OH! Good news! R2 is broadcasting to me that he has found Master Luke! And he will be able to send a signal to him! He is still alive and well! For now."

C-3PO's legs clashed against the rear gunnery seat as the ship lurched awkwardly forward. Drrsala was doing the best he could with controls not meant for Trandoshan hands. To make matters more difficult, the protocol droid wouldn't be able to operate the guns based on his model programming being forbidden from wielding weapons, so he'd have to handle both duties as best as his scaly claws could manage.

Drrsala clicked and hissed his message.

" _Control the loudspeaker. You will need to speak to the mercenaries._ "

::: | ::: | :::

Varak and Varo looked at one another as the rest of the Marauders were loading up the pathetic Voss captives. They had discussed before what they might do in order to save themselves if the job went badly. They stood guard on the lip of the freighter as the repulsors began firing up. This was a precarious moment. It would take a minute or two for the repulsors to fire up an anti-grav buffer large enough to properly take off. Loading these Voss could take longer, even as they shocked and prodded them to hurry up. There was no sign of the children with Force power, either. The Marauders certainly hoped that they had left them behind.

Varak had wondered what he'd do if he ever had faced a Jedi in battle. It felt anticlimactic if that was what he'd actually seen. The children could not have seemed less intimidating other than by the seriousness of what they had all just witnessed. Perhaps the Jedi were real after all.

When he'd seen the history holos on the era of the Jedi, he'd speculated that the power of the Jedi all along maybe had just been a power of inducing hallucinations. That may have explained much about the legends. But if that were true, Kale was still dead, cut down by a lightsaber that just happened to fly into the hands of a little girl.

There was a roar of air as the TIE fighter seemingly lifted off its landing spot and began drifting inexpertly their way.

"Now what?" Varo sneered.

Even with its lurching, careering trajectory, it appeared that whoever was piloting the thing was starting to aim the main guns their way. Just as they had started to realize what was happening, the guns fired, throwing up an explosion of dirt in channels leading right up to the freighter.

Varak screamed to the pilot on the comm-link. "Kinn! You'd better get this thing off the ground!" He heard an angry, profanity-laced reply coming back through the bowels of the ship as the repulsors whined into higher frequencies, lifting the ship slightly.

The TIE fighter's loudspeaker system now projected a proper voice speaking machine-perfect Basic.

"Attention, mercenaries! Release the Voss captives or you will be killed."

Varo snarled. "Scrog me. I'm not going to die at the hands of a protocol droid."

Half the Voss were already loaded. Intan himself looked over the crowd of captives and the Marauders who were loading them into the cargo bay. He ignored the TIE.

"That pilot can't shoot straight. Get the toads in here NOW!"

As he shouted, the rear Marauder guard was hit by a plasma blast that went dead center in his back, exploding through his chest. There was blaster file coming from the huts just 40 meters away. He could see commotion and stormtrooper armor over there. The garrison troops had somehow been freed while Kale was being killed. Their guard, Gojae, must be dead as well.

"Scrog it!" He screamed. As the Voss were loading on to the freighter in groups of eight at a time, tethered to one another, he stepped in front of the next group, kicking the first Voss in the chest to knock the rest all out of the cargo bay.

By now the ship was fully beginning to lift off the ground. There were still more than 30 Voss loaded in the cargo bay.

The TIE's speaker relayed another threat. "Release them all — or. Well, I believe that we shall kill you. Yes. Release them and we will not stop you from leaving!"

Intan pulled up another control fob and aimed it at the terrified captives who had already been secured in the freighter's cargo bay, activating their collars, sending debilitating shocks into them all which knocked them down.

"Tilt the ship!" he screamed to the pilot. "Dump the cargo!"

Lurching at an angle, while only a few meters in the air, the freighter allowed the Voss to tumble out, landing hard on the ground. Intan knew that the remainder down there would now be distracted by tending to the injured Voss while the Marauders made their getaway.

Varak held Varo as they both gripped onto the tethers on the bulkhead. They were nauseated as the freighter continued to fire up its repulsors, even as the planetary gravity also fought them, the elementary force pulling on them and threatening to spill them out of the tilted ship. The rest of the Marauders similarly held tightly to tethers, fighting the sensation that their insides were being pulled in two separate directions.

With a squealing groan of metal-on-metal, the hydraulic ramp finally pulled up closed. There were now 15 Marauders left in the freighter, including Intan. The gravity bubble began to even out, and the sense of vertigo eased. The freighter was now lifting up quickly, vibrations settling down from severe to a more even pattern as the craft sealed off natural gravity's hold from its repulsorlift bubble.

Varak yelled at his commander as they shook with the craft's movements.

"What about Cranna and Vohn? Back at the Keep?"

"Of course we're going back for them!" Intan yelled. "Did you hear that, Kinn? We're going to stop at the Keep! We have to load up that cargo! And, uh, Cranna and Vohn!"

The freighter rumbled its way upward. It was now well above the mountain peaks. Several of the Marauders relaxed momentarily, easing their swollen hands away from the tethers. The ship suddenly banked hard to port, tumbling several of the mercenaries who were no longer restrained to crash into one another and slide on the deck.

"What's going on?" Intan screamed.

Kinn leaned back from the pilot's chair.

"Sorry, mates! It's another ship! Had to dodge that."

::: | ::: | :::

Lando leaned over the naviscope with curiosity. He turned his head to watch a dirty, dented, cargo vessel suddenly veer wide to miss the Imperial shuttle that itself was descending from the upper atmosphere and heading toward the Voss village. Nien mumbled in his own language about the clumsiness of the pilot of the cargo vessel, as it should have checked for craft in the area before taking off. He asked Lando what he wanted to do.

"Let them go for now. The message we've received from Skywalker's droid was that they are now managing to fight off the mercenaries, and that was probably the bulk of them getting out of town. Let's verify the situation on the ground, and then we'll see if we need to turn after that freighter."

::: | ::: | :::

The shadow of Darth Bane continued to move with a slithering ease around Luke. The young Jedi was finding his strength was leaking from him as he made each lunge and parry. Only when he struck out in anger did he manage to flick Bane away nearly effortlessly. The anger was effective and intoxicating. But with each indulgence, it was debilitating him even further. With each strike, he felt the darkness burning his insides. He was being lulled into a bargain with the Dark Side.

Bane leaned in again to strike. Luke lashed out with rage, smacking aside the Dark Lord's saber once more. He felt swollen with the power it gave him, even as the burning didn't fade. With this strength, Luke lashed out again, pushing Bane further away. If he kept this up, Luke would grow stronger, and more hollow, the more that Bane forced his hand.

Luke realized he was materializing now even more as he was in the vision, fully as a master of the Dark Side. It was getting harder to shake. As Bane drove him on, he realized he was losing the will to turn back.

Luke knelt again. He actively fought this darkness. He attempted to moderate this rush of drawing power from the Dark Side, by returning to calm, and letting the anger subside. He considered if he weakened enough for Bane to overtake him, there was the possibility that he could indeed be absorbed by Bane, allowing him to subsequently overtake his body. Above all else, Luke couldn't let that happen.

"Do your worst, Bane. I won't let you pass. Not while I live."

Luke considered whether he could prevent Bane's attempt to overwhelm his mind by inducing his own bodily death. Or, even a better alternative, draw Bane into his body before letting it die. It would at least draw Bane out of his foothold here among the ruins of Voss and maybe permanently kill him.

Retreating into the peace of the Force, he felt himself still weakening. Bane lunged again. Luke parried and pushed Bane's form away with his shoulder, again touching the burning darkness, feeling it cascading down his body. The fire fed his rage, only increasing the strength.

Bane circled him again, taunting. He knew Luke would not be able to keep up the pace of switching from passion to peace and back again.

Luke reached out with the Force. He pushed against the barrier of the circle. The mystics who were there had combined together. He could not break all of their wills interlocked like this. Their souls were here in the Force, meditating on the Light and Dark side for eternity. They had learned to manifest themselves as earnestly as Bane had done. They had no ability to move about as he had, but were beholden to Bane's will.

He had to give Bane credit. He'd thought this through.

Bane's floating visage still circled him, chuckling as he poked his lightsaber at Luke, prodding him to parry again and again as he wheeled to face his opponent.

There was a mechanical chime in Luke's ears. It was a sound not unlike a musical tone, rising to an inflection that seemed to be a question. R2-D2? Here in the Force?

Luke swung again at Bane who defensively blocked the strike, stepping back to gain his bearings. He pondered again. He definitely had heard R2. But how?

He'd long had a connection with R2. He always considered that he was no ordinary droid. Could a machine feel the Force? It was an intriguing thought.

In the Force, R2's beeps and whistles were audible, yet they were understood by Luke. He did not know how, but he knew that R2 had anchored himself, taking the place of Tylo. He had found his master. He had made contact through the Force, and now offered to bring him back.

Luke looked down at his own form as it was manifested here in the Force. He was still wearing the black scales of the Sith armor. He moved his lightsaber to his left hand, staring for a moment at his right limb. The hand was gloved, but even still, he could sense the mechanical hand underneath. He held it up, sensing the individual pieces beneath it; a bio-electrical connection let him feel through its form as though it were an extension of his own body. R2's astromech form appeared in the Force, rolling forward until Luke's mechanical hand made contact with the droid. The key connection with flesh and machine was made.

Bane was still for a moment as he took in what was happening. There was a sudden scream as he realized that Luke had found a loophole to get through the dead mystic guardians. Instantly his visage changed. The black fire exploded and expanded in a plume of rage. Bane's dead face was visible again, opening his desiccated mouth in a scream as he reached out bony hands that shot directly into Luke.

The Jedi was stunned by the sudden blow, falling to his knees and screaming in pain once again. He could feel Bane clutching desperately onto his soul with every inkling of will he had, filling Luke with the Bane's Dark Side wrath.

He knew what he needed to do. He could see the hole punched through the Force by R2. He felt Bane's rage bottled and coiled within himself. He aimed towards the hole that R2 had opened in the Force, and he threw himself through it.

::: | ::: | :::

Jeet Syllba paced in front of Tylo's prone body here in the Force vision. She lied on the ground, too weak now to even stand in the Force. Her entire concentration was focused on keeping the bonds contained, holding Syllba here. His breathing had grown more raspy, and even in this washed, mirrored reflection of the physical realm, he was growing more pale, more weak. He knew he wouldn't last.

He'd shot her. Choked her. Beat her as mercilessly as he could manage. In this world of psychic projections, his rage worked up into a froth, but it was all he could do. They were trapped here. Both of them. Now just waiting to weaken and die.

Suddenly, there was a shattering sound. The walls of the cave in which they were both trapped within seemed to fall away, leaving only a wasteland of sand in a desert night. Syllba covered his eyes and stared into the sky that cracked and opened.

A figure spilled out with a plume of inky blackness surrounding it. It stood and walked. It was Skywalker, the would-be Jedi. But he was different. He was dressed in elaborate, scaled black armor. His face was twisted with lines of strain. His eyes appeared to glow red.

Syllba lifted up his rifle and fired. Skywalker held up a hand, effortlessly seeming to push the bolts away. He twisted his hand and Syllba instantly felt his throat constrict, completely shutting off his air. His body was lifted by the same invisible power of the Force which had stopped his breathing. He was clutching silently at his throat with his hands as he was helplessly lifted above the sands in this Force vision.

Skywalker's voice was hoarse and distorted, as though it were two souls speaking through it.

"Jeet Syllba. I can see exactly who you are. So you thought you would come and meet me here. You thought you would find a bounty, did you?"

Luke swept his hand aside and Syllba's body was tossed backward, falling, scraping on the sand. The Dark Lord Skywalker continued walking forward.

"Fear. Greed. Wrath. These were your tools. This was what you were searching for."

A blue and white astromech droid seemed to be rolling in the distance, pulling away from Luke. Tylo sat upright, her mouth opened with fright. She no longer was straining. This Force vision was entirely in the hand of the dark entity she saw striding through the hole in the sky, wearing the appearance of Luke Skywalker.

"I am bearing a large burden here, Syllba. Something I need to unload. It seems that you've been a servant of the Dark Side. You've sought it out long enough. It seems only fair that I let you have what you were looking for. All of it."

Luke raised his hands and screamed, leaning backward. The black flames around his body turned up and swirled and were projected directly into Syllba's chest.

A muffled "Noo" was heard coming from between Luke and Syllba as the black fire consumed the bounty hunter.

::: | ::: | :::

Luke woke with a start. His eyes were suddenly open. He was no longer wearing black armor. Nor was he wearing a simple farmer's tunic. He was dressed in his light gray, fibrous fatigues. His pistol belt still held his holstered lightsaber. He was kneeling before the fire and meditation holocron in the cave on Voss.

Jeet Syllba was there as well. But this was not the vision he had only known through the Force, but the living man with bloodied Mandalorian armor standing before him, holding a pistol.

Luke had no time to react, however, before Syllba was screaming and holding his head as he stumbled around the cave.

Luke had cracked Syllba's mind open and poured Bane's darkness into him. There, Bane was trapped. The Bounty Hunter was not prepared for the overwhelming nature of his mind being captured entirely by all that the Dark Side had to show him. He staggered as though burning, screaming, moving back and forth in the cave. Blindly, he smacked into one of the walls. He fell backwards, still making rasping noises in terror, as he stumbled again out of the entrance to the cave. Reaching the precipice, his feet slipped from under him. He slid down the steep rock and out of sight, free falling and turning over in the air, finally slapping hard into the ground below with a wet smack.

Luke stood up from his kneeling position, stretching his legs out. He took a deep breath, rubbing his legs. He looked over and noticed Tylo now. She was still wrapped tightly in a duracord net and she looked to be in pain. Luke reached through the Force and pulled it apart, tearing it away from her body.

She gasped, sat upright, and held her hands to her arms, rubbing her flesh still tingling from the shocks of the net. Luke waved his hands and the meditation holocron folded itself shut once more. The two Force users sat and stared at one another. They were speechless at the moment after what they had experienced.

There was suddenly a persistent roaring sound that shook the cave. A ship was approaching the entrance. The sound was emanating from below them. Luke stumbled out into the afternoon light on the windy mountain, standing against the cliff side off which Syllba had just tumbled. A TIE fighter floated up to meet him. He instantly drew his lightsaber, holding the pommel with both hands, preparing to use it to deflect any blaster shots if he could. He waved it back and forth at the craft, waiting to see if it made any offensive moves. The ship seemed to wobble back and forth as it attempted a steady hover.

Finally, the top hatch opened and a gold droid hand was seen waving. C-3PO emerged. His voice volume was at maximum to be heard over the relative loud hum of the craft's repulsors and the constant rumbling noise of displaced air.

"Master Luke! It is so good to see you, Sir! Drrsala insisted that we see if you were still alive and perhaps needed a ride down the mountain?"


	17. Chapter 17

There were three remaining troopers of the garrison now. They stood at the foot of Vader's Keep, looking over the destruction of the garrison barracks below them. Their armor was repaired and repolished, and they stood with blaster rifles slung on their backs. Desek and Balia were in full helmeted armor. Heff was seated on a camp chair on an engineer's sliding cart. He wore a patch over his left eye, and as the HUD in the helmet would be useless for his monocular vision, his helmet was removed. His broken knee in a plastoid brace also rendered him unable to walk without assistance, thus his reliance for now on the sled.

Balia stood holding a pole with the black and red Imperial standard moving gently in the breeze. Desek stood next to him and similarly held a standard with the blue and tan insignia for the Voss garrison.

It had been four days since the mercenaries had been fought off. More than 30 Voss villagers had lost their lives to the Marauders' attack. Many more were injured. It would take years for the village to recover. But no slaves were taken.

Lando's team had come. The commandos spilled out from the Imperial shuttle, expecting a fight, but the enemy was dead or gone by then. Instead, they had been hard at work helping the wounded villagers. There were six upright bacta tanks at the garrison infirmary, and six backups. They were all working at full capacity now, with the bacta fabricators worked hard at forming up replacement batches. There were many punctures and broken bones to be attended to.

Since then, the mystics had followed their traditions, and the burials of the Voss were carried out for days. The dead Marauders, as well as Kale and Vancil, had been buried respectfully but anonymously far from the village. Their graves were unmarked, but each body had a thorn tree planted above it. In the Voss tradition, when murderers were buried, they were topped with a thorn tree sapling, so that the dead would nourish the growing tree. It was believed that the thorn trees would ensnare evil souls, preventing them from returning from the dead.

The three garrison members stood at the forefront of the assembled funeral party as eight other engineer carts that slide above the ground on light repulsors were led to the front. Five of the carts held bodies that had been wrapped in Imperial flags as their shrouds. The last two were hastily constructed wood coffins with flags draped over them.

A pile of reeds had been assembled and stacked 10 Imperial meters high. Balia and Desek planted their flags in the ground, and all three members saluted as the carts gently rolled past, led by Jafan's children, Qyr and Panna, and the astromech droid, R2-D2.

The rolling scaffolding that was above the pyre had been used in the hanger for making repairs on ships, but it was re-purposed now with the platform level above the top of the reed pile. The small elevator lift inside one of the scaffold's legs carried the carts to the top. Heff lowered his salute and Balia and Desek followed. The pair climbed up the scaffolding and together they lifted the shrouded bodies of Rikka and Jafan, and the three engineers from the hangar, and placed them on the pyre.

The garrison members who had been killed in the barracks were mostly reduced to ashes and pieces. Everyone had volunteered to help assist the droids in picking up what they could find. What was left was fit into two coffins, which also were placed on the pyre.

Balia and Desek dismounted the scaffolding and resumed their place next to the colors for the Empire and the garrison. Tylo-Ko, the mystic and widow to Jafan, was dressed in full white garments for mourning. She came up to the front of the pyre now with a wooden torch. She lit the torch with a plasma lighter and held it aloft.

Two loader droids mutely drove the scaffolding backwards, away from the pile.

Jafan, who never was given a family name; born in a brothel in Nar Shadaa; former thief and errand runner in the shadows of that great gambling and pleasure-seeking city. Jafan, who joined the trooper corps to stay one step ahead of investigators who were looking into an incident of a gambler stabbed in mysterious circumstances. Jafan, the outstanding trooper who rose to the rank of Centopt and commanded a unit of 100 men who trusted him with their lives; the Force sensitive, who could have been a Jedi knight had he been living in another time. Jafan, who died while defending the Voss village and the family and friends he loved, had his remains committed to rest. Those who knew and loved him watched on as Tylo laid down the torch and set light to his funeral pyre.

Behind the remaining garrison, the surviving mystics attended, putting their hands together and chanted a song for the departed. To their right, Luke Skywalker, the first Jedi trained in a generation, stood in his clean military jerkin with a grey-and-black cloak wrapped around his body. He bowed his head. Next to him were his droids C-3PO and C-3PR, and Drrsala the Trandoshan. Lando Calrissian stood with his hands folded in front of him, and his head bowed in respect, along with his pilot, Nien Nunb.

Lando's six commandos marched up to join the remaining garrison. Like the stormtroopers, they carried blaster rifles.

Heff looked over and nodded at the commandos as they stood by the side of the remaining troopers. He held a walking stick fashioned for him from bundled river reeds, and pushed himself upright, standing to attention. He called out.

"Garrison! Atten- _ha!_ "

Balia, Desek, and the commandos stood with their feet together and arms at their sides.

"Present! _Arms._ "

Each member unslung their rifles and held them upright, perpendicular to their bodies.

"Ready! Aim! _Fire!_ "

They shouldered and fired a volley of blaster fire over the pyre in the military tradition unchanged from the old Republic. The burning bolts flew away, sizzling brightly as they cut through the black funeral smoke, arcing over the garrison, and finally turning downward and falling somewhere beyond the edge of the mountain.

They replaced their arms to their slings and saluted as the mystics continued their song. The flames continued to grow and consume the remains that rested above them. When the song was finished, Heff turned again and nodded. They dropped their salutes. The commandos turned and saluted Heff. He returned it, and they dropped theirs. They returned to Lando's side. Heff grunted and sat himself down again in the chair on the engineer's sled, his cast-covered leg still stiffly sticking out awkwardly in front of him. Balia and Desek removed their helmets. Their eyes were slightly wet as they mourned for their past brothers in arms.

"It's time." Heff said.

Balia and Desek helped one another fold their respective flags and each in turn tucked them under their arms. Balia walked forward and presented the Imperial flag to Tylo. She nodded a thanks and held it with a plain expression, thoughtlessly letting her fingers feel the fabric on the sides. She was conflicted; as a member of the Rebel Alliance, she had fought long and hard against this flag. As a widow, though, she knew that it was still a memento of Jafan and his service, and prized it as such. She stood with her children closer to the conflagration than any of the others. She handed the flag to Qyr, who held it with his right hand under his small arm while his other hand held his mother's. Tylo stood between both children, holding hands of each of them. The family silently watched as Jafan's remains were consumed by the flames, the heat absorbed by their bodies. Their eyes were dry, as tears were shed already, and the first wave of grief had long passed them. They had known well that it as empty vessel they bid farewell to, as they considered he was already one with the Force.

On Panna's back her lightsaber was sheathed in the repaired bantha leather holster that had been re-stitched to be a proper lightsaber scabbard. It was secured with a new nerff wool-and-leather sash that the survivors of the Voss village had made for her. She was still young, and the pommel of the saber was more half the length of her arm, fitting far easier on her back than it would be at her side. It was a deadly weapon that even an adult would need to wield often with two hands on the pommel. But no one had questioned that it was hers now.

Desek presented the garrison flag to Luke. He nodded and thanked the trooper. He saluted, and Desek returned in kind. Luke and Desek both walked over to the mystics while carrying the flag.

The hooded Jedi presented the flag of the garrison to the lead mystic.

"Tonda-Ka, elder mystic of the Voss. As the Lord of the Keep, inheritor of Black Mask, I am presenting this to you. The garrison is now closed, and the lands and the Keep itself, I am restoring rightfully to the people of Voss."

Tonda and the other mystics bowed to the Jedi.

::: | ::: | :::

"Do you care for any of the tea, Lando?" Luke asked.

"Sure. Normally, I'd prefer something a little stronger. I've got some good stuff for later. But I wouldn't mind a little pick-me-up first."

They sat around a long plasteel table in what were once Vader's quarters, overlooking the vast Voss valley below the Keep through the observation windows. Luke looked over this impressive hall with its polished granite floors and felt a sense that he would miss it somewhat. It was restored to its rightful owners after today.

He presided over a meal now in honor of the dead. The droids continued around the table, presenting food and drink. Algal rations had made passable breads. The meat was prepared by butchering the nerffs that had been killed in the raid, which was a very expensive and rare meal for poor villagers such as those below. So this was a very meaningful donation from the Voss. The commandos, the garrison, Luke, and Tylo's family had gathered to feast and toast the end of the Empire's control of this garrison and of Voss itself.

R2-D2 presented a tray, and Lando took a military cup with the dark liquid. He nodded to the droid and took a sip.

"Not bad. This is from a root, you say? It's sweeter than I thought it would be." Lando sipped again. "Did you find out what the final damage was? What that group of pirates took?"

Luke had his hands together. "It looks like they came back here and managed to load the one cargo container of holocrons. They seemed to have made a mad dash and thrown 20 of the containers of the lightsabers into their freighter as well. They seemed to have evacuated as quickly as possible."

Lando shook his head. "That's not good, is it? The Jedi artifacts and the lightsabers out on the black market?"

Luke was philosophical on the point. "That depends. The droids did manage the work of recording each of the holocrons, so we have a database of the knowledge they contained. I'm glad we haven't lost the knowledge my father had gathered here, even if we're out some artifacts. We also know exactly what they were, in case we come across them again. The lightsabers are just expensive weapons to them. Which they'll probably sell to collectors or very foolish dabblers in the Force."

Lando nodded. "So, do we go looking for them? Get these back? Maybe get some revenge?"

Luke thought about it. "I think I am done with revenge for now. We'll meet them again, nevertheless. And I have seen through the Force that the items they have stolen will not bring them what they think they will. They will only bring them sorrow in the end."

He turned to Heff and the other members of the Garrison.

"My plan, meanwhile, is that we'll take Heff and Desek with us. I still need to see about getting a good replacement for Heff's eye and knee, which we'll be able to do something about on the fleet. And besides, along with Drrsala here, we can use their military experience for what is yet to come.

"Now that the Sith who anchored themselves to the artifacts here in the Keep have been locked out, the mystics will be free to resume their religious practice here without fear of the Sith gaining a foothold over them.

"The Voss will inherit the remains of the garrison, and they've already taken over the control of the deflector shield. Balia has volunteered to stay on as their adviser as they learn to build this place back up, and learn how to make use of the Imperial infrastructure. I'll leave him C-3PR and the garrison's astromech droids to assist as well."

Luke turned to Tylo.

"Have you thought about what you'd like to do, Tylo? You'll be honored as a decorated veteran of the Rebellion for your service if you join us."

She nodded as she put her hands on her children next to her.

"I will take your offer of a ride, Skywalker. I look forward to seeing the others in the Rebellion again. Maybe we'll return here, eventually. But right now, the memories are going to be strong and painful."

She inhaled before she continued. "I want Panna and Qyr to see more of the galaxy beyond this place. But once we are off Voss, as soon as possible, I will look to take my children somewhere far away from here. And far away from the war and the Rebellion."

"I understand," Luke replied. "I'll be glad to have you with us while you can be."

He stood up from the table and walked over to a tray that was next to the where C-3PO and C-3PR were preparing the various dishes in utilitarian Imperial Navy trays. Luke brought over two holocrons, one stacked on the other, and placed them on the table in front of himself.

"If Qyr and Panna wish to follow the path of the Jedi, then it will be open to them. I know you have not decided on that, yet, Tylo. But I think it's important that I give them a couple of gifts fit for Jedi. They've earned them.

"Qyr, this is a holocron from the old master Aorren. It's very old. He or She was of a species I haven't heard of, but Aorren was prized as one of the great masters in the way of powers of the Force, and was a great leader. I believe that it is your destiny to keep this knowledge, and to learn from Aorren."

Qyr was very pleased to hold the jeweled box, moving it around as he checked the carvings with his fingers. He thanked Luke, but he still kept his eyes on the box as he examined it.

Panna was quiet and did not meet Luke's eyes until he presented the next jeweled box to her with both of his hands held out.

"This is the holocron that belonged to Jedi master Essepura Ijaffa. It's his weapon that you hold now as your own. You said that he spoke to you through the Force, and for that reason, it's a great honor to give this to you, Panna.

"If you choose the path of the warrior, then you have great potential. Ijaffa was a great warrior more than 200 years ago. If you choose the role of peacekeeper, or seeker of the Force, then this will guide you as well."

She spoke softly but confidently. "Thank you, Master Jedi."

Luke bowed his head slightly. "May the Force be with you all."

Panna now allowed herself a smile.

"Thank you, Master Jedi. It will be."

::: | ::: | :::

 _Ghosts of the Sith_ by Daniel Jeyn. 2017


	18. Chapter 18 (Epilogue and Afterword)

**EPILOGUE**

 _Three days earlier._

The wind blew in gentle, modulating gusts. The sound of the shifting leaves in the trees was the lone sound in his fading ears. He could see the vast sky above him, observing the late mid-day sun past its peak. It was a beautiful vista. There were birds up above, performing acrobatic circles with diving swoops. He watched them for a few moments, but then chuckled and coughed, misting blood on the inside of his helmet. He realized that they were coming closer. The birds were here for him.

This view would be what he would take with him. He hoarsely whispered a dedication to Kad Ha'rangir, the god of destruction and disruption. He hadn't settled for sloth at the end of his life. He'd thrown himself back into the fray. He'd fought with the fire and the fury of Mandalore, and he had shown no mercy. He'd taken the full measure in battle, and he would die now with his armor and his boots still on.

His back was broken. He could not feel anything below his chest, and his arms were almost entirely numb. His breathing was labored, and he realized now he was nearing the end. This was how it would be.

There was a shuffling sound. Then steps. It seemed that someone had come upon his body. Syllba closed his eyes. He would prefer privacy in his last moments.

A bald-headed human boy in rags came into view of what his helmet's HUD allowed him to see. The boy peered at him, looking frightened.

"You are hurt! Do you need help?"

"This is my death, boy. Please leave me alone."

"Do you have a ship, Mister? Is that how you got here?"

"Yes. I have a ship. The control key is on my belt. It's yours if you want it."

The boy looked at him, closely. Syllba noticed even in his weakened state that he could see through the boy, as though he were only partially visible.

"Do you need healing, Sir? I have ways I can heal you. I know a way to heal through the Force."

Syllba's mind was already falling far away. He mumbled.

"It's… too late, boy. Nothing will stop this now."

"No. I do know a way. If you want it. You have to want it."

The boy held out an evanescent hand. He spoke with a cadence of a much older man.

"If you want it, you just have to tell me it is so. I know you cannot move your hand to touch me. So I will put my hand on yours. Just say that you will let me in. My Force power can restore your body. Just say that you want it."

Syllba body convulsed, taking up his remaining strength. He was beginning the death rattle.

"Say that you want it, Sir. I can help you."

In his weakened state, Syllba reconsidered. The will to live was too strong, by instinct, and in his dying state, as his breathing stopped, his mind screamed with all attendant insistence: live. Yes! I want to live! Yes.

"My name is 'Dessel'," the boy said as he merged with Syllba's soul, which was now halfway gone into death.

::: | ::: | :::

The clawraptors hopped forward to the corpse that was laid out on the cliff. It had been there for three days now. It had put off strange heat during that time. Mixed with decay were also smells of life. They cocked their heads to the side, trying to make sense of what they could smell and taste in the air. Most of the swirling scavengers had given up, flying off for easier, more obvious meals. They had never seen a meal take so long to die. They could smell the blood, dried now, surrounding the creature.

They were squawking at one another, daring one another to approach the meal and test it. One bold, hungry member hopped forward. There seemed to be no movement from the meal. No obvious sign of life or breath. She pecked at the cloth and metal outer shells. She pecked again, seeing if she could find an opening to cut into the meal's body.

She found a broken part of the cloth. Poking her beak into it, she found flesh. It seemed dead, but it's smell was not fully dead. The meal did not seem to be moving, so she took an exploratory bite. The meal twitched.

She cocked her head, peering at the meal. No sign of a heartbeat. Suddenly, the limbs all slightly twitched. She hopped back, squawking. The others joined the squawking as well. One of the fingers lifted up slightly.

A burst of fire and lighting shot at the clawraptor, slicing into her, and instantly burning one side of her body, sending a burst of charred feathers into the air. She and the others squawked in terror and warnings and threats, taking off and fleeing, heading for the sky far from whatever this was. She'd bear the burn scar for the rest of her life.

The body of Jeet Syllba slowly rose. The hands worked clumsily at the helmet and removed it, revealing a head with pale, sunken skin underneath. The body vomited black liquid with dead and decayed tissue. It then stood still. The eyes were unfocused and opaque, but the entity that walked with this body did not use them. It was guided entirely by the Force.

It was not fully dead. But it was far from alive. The Force itself moved the limbs. But it had sensations through the skin, and felt slight movements of what blood remained.

Darth Bane reached down and felt across the body he was in. He felt the broken armor, and the weapon still slung on the back. His hands searched the pouches and the belt, finally ending on a smooth, cylindrical piece of metal the size of a finger. It was the control key for a ship. He read through Syllba's mind and found the answer to where it was hidden.

He laughed, hollowly. It was not ideal. This husk was maybe only temporary at best. But it would do. For now, it would do very nicely indeed.

[ ::: | ::: | :: | ::: | :: | ::: | :: | ::: | ::: ]

 **Afterword**

July 1, 2017. (Updated January, 2018)

Thanks to everyone who has read the story. I appreciate the feedback. I started this story after some fits and starts. I wrote many of the outlines on the 25 minute bus ride to work through the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains.

I wrote this in serial form. I did have an idea for the general story, including a rough idea of the original characters. I did something which I doubt I will do again, which was to write this story as I went along. Thus, I have gone back and made a lot of edits to make sure things were consistent. (Such as ages of children, numbers of droids in a room in a certain scene, etc. It's incredible how my ret-conning really had to add-up.) This was definitely very much a learning experience for me. I doubt I would want to do this again, wherein I write chapters without having the exact final ending in mind. But it was fun, and it was definitely encouraging to know that people were reading it who were looking forward to more.

::: | ::: | :::

I will say that I have obviously deviated a bit from the official _Star Wars_ canon here. Although I would maintain everything thus far is technically within the bounds of the current canon.

All these years later, much of what I like about the _Star Wars_ world was built in the first two films, _A New Hope_ and _The Empire Strikes Back_. As much as I may not think _Return of the Jedi_ is my favorite film, I think the wind up of the story with Vader, Luke, and Palpatine was perfect. Also, _Return of the Jedi_ for all the flak it may occasionally get, did introduce us to some of the most iconic bits of the _Star Wars_ universe: Twi'leks, Gammorreans, Weequay, rancors, etc. (Why do I capitalize Twi'lek but not rancor? English is odd. Presumably, since Twi'leks are humanoid, then they are a _race,_ yet a rancor is a kind of animal. One never really contemplates this type of thing until you find yourself writing science fiction.) Even Jabba the Hutt, one of the most iconic images of SW, was a creation from that movie. The original trilogy is still the single strongest element of "canon" in all the subsequent decades of comics, games, novels, cartoons, etc.

If I had been asked to write the final confrontation between Anakin and Obi-Wan, I would have definitely toned it down. One of the best Hollywood, Technicolor-era mythical fight scenes was the confrontation at the end of the 1958 movie "The Vikings," between Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas. The movie was filmed on a limited budget by actually renting a cruise liner, shipping the film crew over to different coastal locations in Scandinavia, and staging the fights on the ruins of old castles. This was ambitious film-making at the time, but it was a beautiful achievement using practical sets. The whole movie is worth watching by every _Star Wars_ fan. I'm sure the original could have been one of the movies that inspired Lucas himself. When

On that note, I have followed my own interest and focused very much on the ground-level POV of the characters in this story as living in a world in which characters are bound by the physics we all live with, only with fantasy elements added in on top of that. When Luke blocks plasma shots with his lightsaber, for instance, he's a little terrified. Blaster shots also have a payload of burning plasma that scatters and burns things they land on. (Anyone who has ever been hit by bullet fragments or had a spent shell go down their shirt will be familiar with this.)

I've included characters feeling winded when they run, feeling nauseated when ships vibrate, feeling their bones hurt when using jetpacks, and feeling a physical toll on their body when using the Force to break through the physical plain of existence. This is, of course, a much more down-to-Earth (or down-to-Tatooine) portrayal of the _Star Wars_ universe than the official canon has become with characters able to essentially flip and fly without behaving as though they have any weight, wind, or inner-ears that are affected. This is where I believe the latent crop of _Star Wars_ movies and cartoon shows have dipped far into the uncanny valley. I find myself taken out of the action in several of the post _Return of the Jedi_ products for this reason.

But that's fine. This is my interpretation. Also, as Disney and Lucas remind us, they want to aim _Star Wars_ for kids, and that's just fine, too. I've just done something else.

::: | ::: | :::

I absolutely hated killing some of my original characters. I guess it had to happen. I let the story events decide who would live and who would die. But some events took on their own momentum. For instance, when I wrote the Marauders, I didn't have much thought about fleshing out Intan, Varak, and Varo. As it is, I'd love to revisit them sometime in the future. Especially as they are now out in the galaxy looking to work as bounty hunters. And they foolishly intend to profit off their stolen holocrons and lightsabers which, as Luke warned, will have consequences for them which they will regret.

I've also introduced an element of the Sith using bits of undead lore, which has always been hinted at within the _Star Wars_ universe, but never really explored.

This is very much the first part in what easily could be a series of stories. But given the sheer amount of effort put into writing this one, it'll be difficult for me to write a follow-up.

Thanks for reading.

Daniel Jeyn


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